t>la\/fc  Depf-  Clain  kib^^artj 


THE  NOVELS  OF  IVAN  TURGENEV 

FATHERS   AND 
CHILDREN 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN 
By 
CONSTANCE   GARNETT       ^ 


r 


)RK :  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
NDON:    WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 
MCMXX 


Printed  ?'«  Great  Britain 


^' 


MA^N'iliSf^ARV 


INTRODUCTION 

While  On  the  Eve  signalises  the  end  of  the 
Crimea  epoch  and  the  break-up  of  the  crushing, 
overwhelming  regime  of  Nicolas,  Fathers  a?td 
Children  is  a  forecast  of  the  new  Liberal  move- 
ment, which  arose  in  the  Russia  of  the  sixties, 
and  an  analysis  of  the  formidable  type  appear- 
ing on  the  political  horizon — the  Nihilist. 

Turgenev  was  the  first  man  to  detect  the 
existence  of  this  new  type,  the  Nihilist.  His 
own  account  of  his  discovery  gives  us  such  an 
interesting  glimpse  of  his  method  in  creative 
work,  that  we  transcribe  a  passage  from  his 
paper  on  Fathers  and  Childj'en^  written  at  Baden 
in  1869: — 

*It  was  in  the  month  of  August  i860,  when  I  was 
taking  sea  baths  at  Ventnor,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  that 
the  first  idea  of  Fathers  and  Children  came  into  my 
head  ;  that  novel,  thanks  to  which  the  favourable 
opinion  of  the  younger  generation   about  me  has 

^^ —  4.^  ^, J     -.r         •         -  ^ve  heard  and  read 

in  critical  journals  that  i  have  cciy  been  elaborating 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

an  idea  of  my  own.  .  .  .  For  my  part,  I  ought  to  con- 
fess that  I  never  attempted  to  create  a  type  without 
having,  not  an  idea,  but  a  hving  person,  in  whom  the 
various  elements  were  harmonised  together,  to  work 
from.  I  have  always  needed  some  groundwork  on 
which  I  could  tread  firmly.  This  was  the  case  with 
Fathers  and  Children,  At  the  foundation  of  the 
principal  figure,  Bazarov  was  the  personality  of  a 
young  provincial  doctor.  He  died  not  long  before 
i860.  In  that  remarkable  man  was  incarnated  to  my 
ideas  the  just  rising  element,  which,  still  chaotic, 
afterwards  received  the  title  of  Nihihsm.  The  im- 
pression produced  by  this  individual  was  very  strong. 
At  first  I  could  not  clearly  define  him  to  myself. 
But  I  strained  my  eyes  and  ears,  watching  every- 
thing surrounding  me,  anxious  to  trust  simply  in  my 
own  sensations.  What  confounded  me  was  that  I 
had  met  not  a  single  idea  or  hint  of  what  seemed 
appearing  to  me  on  all  sides.  And  the  doubt  involun- 
tarily suggested  itself.  .  .  .' 

Fathers  and  Children  was  published  in  the 
spring  of  1862  in  KatkofTs  paper.  The  Russian 
Messenger,  the  organ  of  '  the  Younger  Genera- 
tion,' and  the  sto»*rnv  <:r^r^rrr- .  ;,y  thiil  the  aovci 
immedii!.-  !j  ^novokeU,  was  so. bitter,  deep,  rin-' 
lasting,  that  the  episode  forms  one  of  the  rao. ;i 
interesting  chapters  in  literary  history.  Rarely 
has   so  great  an   artist  so  thoroughly   drav/n 

public  attention  to  a  scrutiny  of  the  new  ideas 

vi 


INTRODUCTION 

rising  in  its  midst ;  rarely  has  so  great  an  artist 
come  into  such  violent  collision  with  his  own 
party  thereby  ;  never  perhaps  has  there  been  so 
striking  an  illustration  of  the  incapacity  of  the 
public,  swayed  by  party  passion,  to  understand 
a  pure  work  of  art.  The  effect  of  the  publica- 
tion was  widespread  excitement  in  both  politi- 
cal camps.  Everybody  was,  at  the  time,  on  the 
alert  to  see  what  would  be  the  next  move  on 
the  political  board.  The  recent  Emancipation 
of  the  Serfs  was  looked  upon  by  young  Russia 
as  only  a  prelude  to  many  democratic  measures, 
while  the  Reactionists  professed  to  see  in  that 
measure  the  ruin  of  the  country  and  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end.  The  fast  increasing  antipathy 
between  the  Old  Order  and  the  New,  like  a  fire, 
required  only  a  puff  of  wind  to  set  it  ablaze. 
And  Bazarov's  character  and  aims  came  as  a 
godsend  to  the  Reactionists,  who  hailed  in  it 
the  portrait  of  the  insidious  revolutionary  Ideas 
current  in  young  Russia ;  and  they  hastened  to 
crowd  round  Turgenev,  ironically  congratu- 
lating the  former  champion  of  Liberalism 
on  his  penetration  — '  ^onf^^tv  in  unmasking 
the  Nihilist,  But  we  wiU  qaot^i  iUf^t  ev's 
own  words ; — 

*  I  will  not  enlarge  on  the  effect  produced  b    this 
Qovei.     I  will  only  say  that  everywhere  the   ¥ord 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

Nihilist  was  caught  up  by  a  thousand  tongues,  and  that 
on  the  day  of  the  conflagration  of  the  Apraksinsky 
shops,  when  I  arrived  in  St.  Petersburg,  the  first  ex- 
clamation with  which  I  was  greeted  was,  "J^st  see 
what  your  Nihilists  are  doing ! "  .  .  .  I  experienced 
a  coldness  approaching  to  indignation  from  people 
near  and  sympathetic  to  me.  I  received  congratula- 
tions, almost  caresses,  from  people  of  the  opposite 
camp,  from  enemies.  This  confused  me,  wounded 
me;  but  my  conscience  did  not  reproach  m.e. 
I  knew  very  well  I  had  carried  out  honestly  the 
type  I  had  sketched,  carried  it  out  not  only  with- 
out prejudice,  but  positively  with  sympathy.  .  .  . 
While  some  attack  me  for  outraging  the  Younger 
Generation,  and  promise  me,  with  a  laugh  of 
contempt,  to  burn  my  photograph,  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, with  indignation,  reproach  me  for  my  servile 
cringing  to  the  younger  generation.  ..."  You  are 
grovelling  at  the  feet  of  Bazarov.  You  pretend  to 
find  fault  with  him,  and  you  are  licking  the  dust  at  his 
feet,"  says  one  correspondent.  Another  critic  repre- 
sented M.  Katkoff  and  me  as  two  conspirators, 
'plotting  in  the  solitude  of  our  chamber  our  traps 
and  slanders  against  the  forces  of  young  Russia." 
An  effective  picture  !  .  -  ,  My  critics  called  my  work 
a  pamphl(  I  and  referred  to  my  wounded  and  irntaied 
vanity.  .  But  a  shadow  lay  on  my  name,  I  don't 
deceive  njyself.     I  know  that  shadow  will  remain.' 

Politics  is  a  game  where  the  mistakes  and 

admissions  of  your  adversary  are  your  own  good 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

character  in  Public  Opinion — a  definition  which 
goes  far  to  account  for  the  easy  predominance 
of  the  political  sharper — and  so  Turgenev,  the 
great  artist,  he  who,  in  creating  Bazarov  for  an 
ungrateful  public,  to  use  his  o-wn  words,  ^simply 
did  not  know  how  to  work  otherwise  I  found  to 
his  cost.  The  Younger  Generation,  irritated 
by  the  public  capital  made  out  of  Bazarov  and 
his  Nihilism  by  'the  Fathers,*  flew  into  the 
other  extreme,  and  refused  to  see  in  Bazarov 
anything  other  than  ^a  caricature  of  itself.  It 
denied  Bazarov  was  of  its  number,  or  repre- 
sented its  views  in  any  way ;  and  to  this  day 
surviving  Nihilists  will  demonstrate  warmly  that 
the  creation  of  his  sombre  figure  is  '  a  m.istake 
from  beginning  to  end.'  The  reason  for  this 
wholesale  rejection  of  Bazarov  is  easy  to  account 
for ;  and  Turgenev,  whose  clear-sightedness 
about  his  works  was  unaffected  either  by  vanity, 
diffidence,  or  the  ignorant  onslaughts  of  the 
whole  tribe  of  minor  critics,  penetrates  at  once 
to  the  heart  of  the  matter : — 

'The  whole  ground  of  the  misunderstanding  lay  in 

the  fact  that  the  type  of  Bazarov  had  not  time  to  pass 

through  the  usual  phases.     At  the  very  moment  of 

his  appearance  the  author  attacked  him.     It  was  a 

new  method  as  well  as  a  new  type  I  introduced — that 

of  Realising  instead  of  Idealising.  .  .  .  The  reader  is 

easily  thrown  into  perplexity  when  the  author  does 

ix 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

not  show  clear  sympathy  or  antipathy  to  his  own 
child.  The  reader  readily  gets  angry.  .  .  .  After 
all,  books  exist  to  entertain.' 

An  excellent  piece  of  analysis  and  a  quiet 
piece  of  irony  this  !  The  character  of  Bazarov 
i  was  in  fact  such  an  epitome  of  the  depths  of  a 
'  great  movement,  that  the  mass  of  commonplace 
educated  minds,  the  future  tools  of  the  move- 
ment, looked  on  it  with  alarm,  dislike,  and 
dread.  The  average  man  will  only  recognise 
his  own  qualities  in  his  fellows,  and  endow  a 
^  man  with  his  own  Httlenesses.  So  Bazarov's 
d^pth  excited  the  superficiality^of  the^eternally 
omnipresent  average  nimi  The  Idealists  in 
the  Younger  Generation  were  morally  grieved  to 
see  that  Bazarov  was  not  wholly  inspired  by 
their  dreams  ;  he  went  deeper,  and  the  average 
man  received  a  shock  of  surprise  that  hurt  his 
vanity.  So  the  hue  and  cry  was  raised  around 
Turgenev,  and  raised  only  too  well.  Bazarov  is 
the  most  dominating  of  Turgenev's  creations, 
yet  it  brought  upon  him  secret  distrust  and 
calumny,  undermined  his  influence  with  those 
he  was  with  at  heart,  and  went  far  to  damage 
his  position  as  the  leading  novelist  of  his  day. 
j  The  lesson  is  significant.  No  generation  ever 
understands  itself;  its  members  welcome  eagerly 
their  portraits  drawn  by  their  friends,  and  the 


.V  INTRODUCTION 

caricatures  drawn  of  their  adversaries ;  but  to 
the  new  type  no  mercy  is  shown,  and  every- 
body hastens  to  misunderstand,  to  abuse,  to 
destroy. 

So  widely  indeed  was  Bazarov  misunderstood, 
that  Turgenev  once  asserted,  '  At  this  very 
moment  there  are  only  two  people  who  have 
understood  my  intentions — Dostoievsky  and 
Botkin/ 

And  Dostoievsky  was  of  the  opposite  camp 
— a  Slavophil. 

II 

What,  then,  is  Bazarov  ? 

Time  after  time  Turgenev  took  the  oppor- 
tunity, now  in  an  article,  now  in  a  private  or  a 
public  letter,  to  repel  the  attacks  made  upon 
his  favourite  character.  Thus  in  a  letter  to  a 
Russian  lady,^  he  says— 

'What,  you  too  say  that  in  drawing  Bazarov  I 
wished  to  make  a  caricature  of  the  young  generation. 
You  repeat  this — pardon  my  plain  speaking — idiotic 
reproach.  Bazarov,  my  favourite  child,  on  whose 
account  I  quarrelled  with  Katkoff;  Bazarov,  on 
whom  I  lavished  all  the  colours  at  my  disposal  j 
Bazarov,  this  man  of  intellect,  this  hero,  a  cari- 
cature !     But  I  see  it  is  useless  for  me  to  protest.' 

^  Souvenirs  sur  Tourgueneff^  1887. 
xi 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

And  In  a  letter  addressed  to  the  Russian 
students  at  Heidelberg,  he  reiterates  : — 

'  Flatter  comnie  un  caniche^  I  did  not  wish ;  al- 
though in  this  way  I  could  no  doubt  have  all 
the  young  men  at  once  on  my  side  \  but  I  was 
unwilling  to  buy  popularity  by  concessions  of  this 
kind.  It  is  better  to  lose  the  campaign  (and  I 
believe  I  have  lost  it)  than  win  by  this  subterfuge. 
I  dreamed  of  a  sombre,  savage,  and  great  figure,  only 
half  emerged  from  barbarism,  strong,  viechant,  and 
honest,  and  nevertheless  doomed  to  perish  because 
it  is  always  in  advance  of  the  future.  I  dreamed  of 
a  strange  parallel  to  Pugatchev.  And  my  young 
contemporaries  shake  their  heads  and  tell  me,  "Vous 
etes  foutu^  old  fellow.  You  have  insulted  us.  Your 
Arkady  is  far  better.  It 's  a  pity  you  haven't  worked 
him  out  a  little  more."  There  is  nothing  left  for 
me  but,  in  the  words  of  the  gipsy  song,  "  to  take 
off  my  hat  with  a  very  low  bow." ' 

What,  then,  is  Bazarov  ? 

Various  writers  have  agreed  in  seeing  in  him 
only  *  criticism,  pitiless,  barren,  and  overwhelm- 
ing analysis,  and  the  spirit  of  absolute  nega- 
tion,' but  this  is  an  error.  Representing  the 
creed  which  has  produced  the  militant  type  of 
Revolutionist  in  every  capital  of  Europe,  he  is 
the  bare  mind  of  Science  first  applied  to  Po lilies. 
His  own  immediate  origm  is~Gefman  Science 

interpreted  by  that  spirit  of  logical  intensity, 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

Russian   fanaticism,  or   devotion   to  the  Idea,  \ 
which  is  perhaps  the  distinguishing  genius  of 
the  Slav.     But  he  represents  the  roots  of  the 
modern  Revolutionary  movements  in  thought 
as  well  as  in  politics,  rather  than  the  branches 
springing  from  those  roots.     Inasmuch  as  the 
early  work  of  the  pure  scientific  spirit,  knowing 
itself  to  be  fettered  by  the   superstitions,  the 
confusions,   the   sentimentalities    of    the   Past, 
was  necessarily  destructive,  Bazarov's  primary  j 
duty  was  to  Destroy.     In  his  essence,  however, 
he  stands  for  ike  sceptical  conscience  of  modern  f 
Sciences      His  watchword  is  Reality^  and  not 
Negation,  as  everybody  in  pious  horror  hastened 
to  assert.     Turgenev,  whose  first  and  last  advice 
to  young  writers  was,  *  You  need  truth,  remorse- 
less truth,  as  regards  your  own  sensations,'  was 
indeed    moved    to   declare,  *^  Except  Bazarov's  ■  ^ 
views  on  Art,  I  share  almost  all  his  convic-  " 
tions.'     The  crude   materialism  of  the  sixties 
was  not  the  basis  of  the  scientific  spirit,  it  was 
merely  its  passing  expression  ;  and  the  early 
Nihilists  who  denounced  Art,  the  Family,  and 
Social  Institutions  were  simply  freeing  them- 
selves from  traditions  preparatory  to  a  struggle 
that  was   inevitable.     Again,   though   Bazarov 
is  a  Democrat,  perhaps  his  kinship  with  the      \ 
people  is  best  proved  by  the  contempt  he  feels    »/ 

for  them.     He  stands  forward  essentially  as  an-^ 

xiii 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

\    Individual,  with  the  '  isms '  that  can  aid  him, 
.   mere  tools  in  his  hand;  Socialist,  Communist, or 
'    Individualist,  in  his  necessary  phases  he  fought 
this  century  against  the  tyranny  of  centralised 
Governments,  and  next  century  he  will  be  fight- 
ing against   the   stupid  tyranny  of  the  Mass. 
Looking  at  Bazarov,  however,  as  a  type  that 
has   played    its    part    and    vanished    with    its 
generation,  as  a  man  he  is  a  new  departure  in 
history.     His   appearance    marks   the  dividing 
\  line  between  two  religions,  that  of  the  Past — 
^  Faith,  and   that  growing  religion  of  to-day — 
Science.     His  is  the   duty  of  breaking  away 
from  all  things  that  men  call  Sacred,  and  his 
savage  egoism  is  essential  to  that  duty.     He  is 
\  subject  to  neither  Custom  nor  Law.     He  is  his 
own  law,  and  is  occupied  simply  with  the  fact 
he  is  studying.     He  has  thrown  aside  the  ties 
of  love  and  duty  that  cripple  the  advance  of  the 
strongest   men.     He   typifies   Mind    grappling 
with  Nature,  seeking  out  her  inexorable  laws, 
Mind   in   pure    devotion   to   the  What    Is,   in 
startling   contrast    to    the    minds   that   follow 
their  self-created   kingdom  of  What  Appears, 
and  Ought  to  Be.     He  is  therefore  a  foe  to 
i  the    poetry    and    art    that    help    to    increase 
Nature's   glamour   over   man  by  alluring  him 
to  yield  to  her ;  for  Bazarov's  great  aim  is  to 

see  Nature  at  work  behind  the  countless  veils 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

of  illusions  and  ideals,  and  all  the  special 
functions  of  belief  which  she  develops  in  the 
minds  of  the  masses  to  get  them  unquestion- 
ing to  do  her  bidding.  Finally,  Bazarov,  in 
whom  the  comfortable  compromising  English 
mind  sees  only  a  man  of  bad  form,  bad 
taste,  bad  manners,  and  overwhelming  conceit ; 
finally,  Bazarov  stands  for  Humanity  awakened 
from  century-old  superstitions,  and  the  long 
dragging  oppressive  dream  of  tradition.  Naked 
he  stands  under  a  deaf,  indifferent  sky,  but  he 
feels  and  knows  that  he  has  the  strong  brown 
earth  beneath  his  feet. 

This  type,  though  it  has  developed  into 
a  network  of  special  branches  to-day,  it  is 
not  difficult  for  us  to  trace  as  it  has  appeared 
and  disappeared  in  the  stormy  periods  of  the 
last  thirty  years.  Probably  the  genius  and 
energy  of  the  type  was  chiefly  devoted  to 
positive  Science,  and  not  to  Politics ;  but  it 
is  sufficient  to  glance  at  the  Revolutionary 
History,  in  theory  and  action,  of  the  Continent 
to  see  that  every  movement  was  inspired  by 
the  ideas  of  the  Bazarovs,  though  led  by  a 
variety  of  leaders.  Just  as  the  popular  move- 
ments for  Liberty  fifty  years  earlier  found  senti- 
mental and  romantic  expression  in  Byronism, 
so  the  popular  movements  of  our  time  have 
been  realistic  in  idea,  and  have  looked  to  Science 

XV 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

for  their  justification.  Proudhon,  Bakunin, 
Karl  Marx,  the  Internationals,  the  Russian 
Terrorists, theCommunists,allhave  a  certain  rela- 
tion to  Bazarov,  but  his  nearest  kinsmen  in  these 
and  other  movements  we  believe  have  worked, 
'"',  and  have  remained,  obscure.  It  was  a  stroke 
Y|of  genius  on  Turgenev's  part  to  make  Bazarov 

vdie  on  the  threshold  unrecognised.  He  is 
Aggression,  destroyed  in  his  destroying.  And 
•  there  are  many  reasons  in  life  for  the  Bazarovs 
remaining  obscure.  For  one  thing,  their  few 
disciples,  the  Arkadys,  do  not  understand 
them  ;  for  another,  the  whole  swarm  of  little 
interested  persons  who  make  up  a  movement 
are  more  or  less  engaged  in  personal  interests, 
and  they  rarely  take  for  a  leader  a  man  who 
works  for  his  own  set  of  Truths,  scornful  of  all 
cliques,  penalties,  and  rewards.  Necessarily, 
too,  the  Bazarovs  work  alone,  and  are  given 
the  most  dangerous  tasks  to  accomplish  un- 
aided. Further,  they  are  men  whose  brutal 
and  breaking  force  attracts  ten  men  where  it 
repels  a  thousand.      The  average  man  is   too 

V  afraid  of  Bazarov  to  come  into  contact  with 
him.  Again,  the  Bazarovs,  as  Iconoclasts,  are 
always  unpopular  in  their  own  circles.  Yester- 
day in  political  life  they  were  suppressed  or 
exiled,  and  even  in  science  they  were  the  men 

who  were   supplanted  before  their  real  claim 

xvi 


INTRODUCTION 

was  recognised,  and  to-day  when  order  reigns 
for  a  time,  the  academic  circles  and  the  popular 
critics  will  demonstrate  that  Bazarov's  existence 
was  a  mistake,  and  the  crowd  could  have  got 
on  much  better  without  him. 

The  Crowd,  the  ungrateful  Crowd,  though  for 
it  Bazarov  has  wrested  much  from  effete  or 
corrupt  hands,  and  has  fought  and  weakened 
despotic  and  bureaucratic  power,  what  has  its 
opinion  or  memory  to  do  with  his  brave 
heroic  figure?  Yes,  heroic,  as  Turgenev,  in 
indignation  with  Bazarov's  shallow  accusers, 
was  betrayed  into  defining  his  own  creation,^ 
Bazarov,  whose  very  atmosphere  is  difficulty 
and  danger,  who  cannot  move  without  hostility, 
carrying  as  he  does  destruction  to  the  old  worn- 
out  truths,  contemptuous  of  censure,  still  more 
contemptuous  of  praise,  he  goes  his  way  against 
wind  and  tide.  Brave  man,  given  up  to  his  V 
cause,  whatever  it  be,  it  is  his  joy  to  stand  alone, 
watching  the  crowd  as  it  races  wherever  reward 
is  and  danger  is  not.  It  is  Bazarov's  life  to 
despise  honours,  success,  opinion,  and  to  let 
nothing,  not  love  itself,  come  between  him  and 
his  inevitable  course,  and,  when  death  comes, 
to  turn  his  face  to  the  wall,  while  in  the  street 
below  he  can  hear  the  voices  of  men  cheering  the  i 
popular  hero  who  has  last  arrived.    The  Crowd  1 

Bazarov  is  the  antithesis  of  the  cowardice  of  ' 

xvii  b 


\ 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

the  Crowd.    That  is  the  secret  why  wc  love 
",  him. 


ni 


/  As  a  piece  of  art  Fathers  and  Children  is  the 
most  powerful  of  all  Turgenev's  works.  The 
figure  of  Bazarov  is  not  only  the  political  centre 
of  the  book,  against  which  the  other  characters 
'show  up  in  their  respective  significance,  but  a 
figure  in  which  the  eternal  tragedy  of  man's 
impotence  and  insignificance  is  realised  in  scenes 
of  a  most  ironical  human  drama.  How  ad- 
inirably  this  figure  dominates  everything  and 
everybody.  Everything  falls  away  before  this 
man's  biting  sincerity.     In  turn  the  figure-heads 

X'  of  Culture  and  Birth,  Nikolai  and  Pavel  repre- 

y:  senting  the  Past ;  Arkady  the  sentimentalist 
representing  the  Present ;  the  father  and  mother 

^  representing  the  ties  of  family  that  hinder  a 
man's   life-work  ;   Madame  Odintsov  embody- 

'^^  ing  the  fascination  of  a  beautiful  woman — all  fall 
into  their  respective  places.     But  the  particular 

^  power  of  Fathers  and  Children^  of  epic  force 
'  almost,  arises  from  the  way  in  which  Turgenev 
makes  us  feel  the  individual  human  tragedy  of 
Bazarov  in  relation  to  the  perpetual  tragedy 
everywhere  in  indifferent  Nature.  In  On  the 
Eve^  Turgenev  cast  his  figures  against  a  poetic 


3CVU1 


INTRODUCTION 

background  by  creating  an  atmosphere  of  War 
and  Patriotism.  But  in  Fathers  and  Children 
this  poetic  background  is  Nature  herself, 
Nature  who  sows,  with  the  same  fling  of  her 
hand,  life  and  death  springing  each  from  each, 
in  the  same  rhythmical  cast  of  fate.  And  with 
Nature  for  the  background,  there  comes  the  won- 
derful sense  conveyed  to  the  reader  throughout 
the  novel,  of  the  generations  with  their  fresh 
vigorous  blood  passing  away  quickly,  a  sense 
of  the  coming  generations,  whose  works,  too 
will  be  hurried  away  into  the  background, 
a  sense  of  the  silence  of  Earth  while  her 
children  disappear  into  the  shadows,  and 
are  whelmed  in  turn  by  the  inexorable  night. 
While  everything  in  the  novel  is  expressed  in 
the  realistic  terms  of  daily  commonplace  life, 
the  characters  appear  now  close  to  us  as  com- 
panions, and  now  they  seem  like  distant  figures 
walking  under  an  immense  sky  ;  and  the  effect  of 
Turgenev's  simply  and  subtly  drawn  landscapes 
is  to  give  us  a  glimpse  of  men  and  women  in 
their  actual  relation  to  their  mother  earth  and  the 
sky  over  their  heads.  This  effect  is  rarely  con- 
veyed in  the  modern  Western  novel,  which  deals 
so  much  with  purely  indoor  life  ;  but  the  Russian 
novelist  gained  artistic  force  for  his  tragedies 
by  the  vague  sense  ever  present  with  him  of 
the    enormous    distances   of  the  vast  steppes, 

xix 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

bearing  on  their  bosom  the  peasants'  lives,  which 
serve  as  a  sombre  background  to  the  life  of  the 
isolated    individual   figures   with  which   he   is 
'^dealing.     Turgenev  has  availed  himself  of  this 
hidden  note  of  tragedy,  and  with  the  greatest 
art  he  has  made  Bazarov,  with  all  his  ambition 
opening  out  before  him,  and  his  triumph  awaited, 
\  the  eternal   type  of  man's  conquering  egoism 
I  conquered  by  the  pin-prick  of  Death.     Bazarov, 
who  looks  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left, 
who  delays  no  longer  in  his  life-work  of  throw- 
ing off  the    mind-forged    manacles  ;    Bazarov, 
who  trusts  not  to  Nature,  but  would  track  the 
course  of  her  most  obscure  laws ;    Bazarov,  in 
his  keen  pursuit  of  knowledge,  is  laid  low  by  the 
weapon   he   has   selected  to  wield.      His  own 
tool,  the  dissecting  knife,  brings  death  to  him, 
and  his  body  is  stretched  beside  the  peasant 
who  had  gone  before.     Of  the  death-scene,  the 
great   culmination   of  this   great   novel,    it   is 
/  impossible  to    speak   without   emotion.      The 
I  voice   of  the   reader,   whosoever   he  be,    must 
^!  break  when  he  comes  to  those  passages  of  in- 
/  finite  pathos  where  the  father,  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch,  is  seen  peeping  from  behind  the  door  at 
his  dying  son,  where  he  cries.  '  Still  living,  my 
Yevgeny  is  still  living,  and  now  he  will  be  saved. 
Wife,  wife  ! '  and  where,  when  death  has  come, 
he  cries,  *  I  said  I   should  rebel.     I  rebel,   I 

XX 


INTRODUCTION 

rebel  I  *  What  art,  what  genius,  we  can  only 
repeat,  our  spirit  humbled  to  the  dust  by  the 
exquisite  solemnity  of  that  undying  simple 
scene  of  the  old  parents  at  the  grave,  the  scene 
where  Turgenev  epitomises  in  one  stroke  the 
infinite  aspiration,  the  eternal  insignificance  of  j 
the  life  of  man. 

Let  us  end  here  with  a  repetition  of  a 
simple  passage,  that  echoing  through  the  last 
pages  of  Fathers  and  Children  must  find  an 
echo  in  the  hearts  of  Turgenev's  readers : 
* "  To  the  memory  of  Bazarov," '  Katya  whis- 
pered in  her  husband's  ear,  .  .  .  but  Arkady 
did  not  venture  to  propose  the  toast 
aloud.'  We,  at  all  events,  can  drink  the  toast 
to-day  as  a  poor  tribute  in  recompense  for 
those  days  v/hen  Turgenev  in  life  proposed  it, 
and  his  comrades  looked  on  him  with  distrust, 
with  coldness,  and  with  anger. 

EDWARD  GARNETT. 
June  1895. 


xxf 


THE  NAMES  OF  THE  CHARACTERS 
IN  THE  BOOK. 

NikolAi  Petr6vitch  KirsAnqv. 

PAvEL  Petr6vitch  Kirsanov. 

Arkady  (ArkAsha)  NikolA-evitch  {or  NikolA-  V 

itch). 
Yevgeny  (6nyusha)  VASsfL-YEViTCH  (^rVASsfL- 

yitch)  BazArov. 
VASsfLY  IvAnovitch  {or  IvAnitch). 
ArIna  VlAsyevna. 
Fed6s-ya  (F]£nitchka)  NikolA-evna. 
Anna  Serg-yevna  Od/ntsov, 

KAtYA   Si;RG-YEVNA. 
PORFfRY    PlAt6nITCH. 
MaTVY    fL-YITCH    KoLyAzIn/ 

Evd6ks-ya  {or  Avd6tya)  NiKfxiSHNA  KiJkshin, 

VfKTOR    SfxNIKOV. 

PiOTR  {pron.  P-yotr), 

Prok6fitch. 

Dun-yAsha. 

Mfx-YA. 

Tim6feitch. 

In  transcribing  the  Russian  names  into  English — 
a  has  the  sound  of  a  in  father. 
e         ti  )i        ^  i^  pane. 

i        „  „       u. 

U  „  „  00. 

y  is  always  consonantal  except  when  it  \% 

the  last  letter  of  the  word, 

^  is  always  hard. 

xxiii 


I 

*  Well,  Pictr,  not  in  sight  yet  ? '  was  the 
question  asked  on  May  the  20th,  1859,  by  a 
gentleman  of  a  little  over  forty,  in  a  dusty  coat 
and  checked  trousers,  who  came  out  without  his 
hat  on  to  the  low  steps  of  the  posting  station 

at  S .     He  was  addressing  his  servant,  a 

chubby  young  fellow,  with  whitish  down  on  his 
chin,  and  little,  lack-lustre  eyes. 

The  servant,  in  whom  everything — the  tur- 
quoise ring  in  his  ear,  the  streaky  hair  plastered 
with  grease,  and  the  civility  of  his  movements — 
indicated  a  man  of  the  new,  improved  genera- 
tion, glanced  with  an  air  of  indulgence  along 
the  road,  and  made  answer  : 

'  No,  sir  ;  not  in  sight' 

'Not  in  sight?'  repeated  his  master. 

*  No,  sir,'  responded  the  man  a  second  time. 

His  master  sighed,  and  sat  down  on  a  little 
bench.  We  will  introduce  him  to  the  reader 
while  he  sits,  his  feet  tucked  under  him,  gazing 
thougrhtfuUy  round. 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

His  name  was  Nikolai  Petrovitch  Kirsanov. 
He  had,  twelve  miles  from  the  posting  station, 
a  fine  property  of  two  hundred  souls,  or,  as 
he  expressed  it — since  he  had  arranged  the 
division  of  his  land  with  the  peasants,  and 
started  '  a  farm  * — of  nearly  five  thousand  acres. 
His  father,  a  general  in  the  army,  who  served  in 
1 8 12,  a  coarse,  half-educated,  but  not  ill-natured 
man,  a  typical  Russian,  had  been  in  harness  all 
his  life,  first  in  command  of  a  brigade,  and  then  of 
a  division,  and  lived  constantly  in  the  provinces, 
where,  by  virtue  of  his  rank,  he  played  a  fairly 
important  part.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  born 
in  the  south  of  Russia  like  his  elder  brother, 
Pavel,  of  whom  more  hereafter.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  home  till  he  was  fourteen,  surrounded 
by  cheap  tutors,  free-and-easy  but  toadyings 
adjutants,  and  all  the  usual  regimental  and  stafr 
set.  His  mother,  one  of  the  Kolyazin  family, 
as  a  girl  called  Agathe,  but  as  a  general's  wife 
Agathokleya  Kuzminishna  Kirsanov,  was  one 
of  those  military  ladies  who  take  their  full  share 
of  the  duties  and  dignities  of  office.  (  She  wore 
gorgeous  caps  and  rustling  silk  dresses ;  in 
church  she  was  the  first  to  advance  to  the  cross  ; 
she  talked  a  great  deal  in  a  loud  voice,  let  her 
children  kiss  her  hand  in  the  morning,  and  gave 
them  her  blessing  at  night — in  fact,  she  got 
everything  out  of  life  she  could.  .  Nikolai  Petro- 


ls 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

vitch,as  a  general's  son — though  so  far  from  being 
distinguished  by  courage  that  he  even  deserved 
to  be  called  '  a  funk ' — was  intended,  like  his 
brother  Pavel,  to  enter  the  army  ;  but  he  broke 
his  leg  on  the  very  day  when  the  news  of  his 
commission  came,  and,  after  being  two  months 
in  bed,  retained  a  slight  limp  to  the  end  of  his 
days.  His  father  gave  him  up  as  a  bad  job, 
and  let  him  go  into  the  civil  service.  He  took 
him  to  Petersburg  directly  he  was  eighteen,  and 
placed  him  in  the  university.  His  brother  hap- 
pened about  the  same  time  to  be  made  an  officer 
in  the  Guards.  The  young  men  started  living 
together  in  one  set  of  rooms,  under  the  remote 
supervision  of  a  cousin  on  their  mother's  side, 
Ilya  Kolyazin,  an  official  of  high  rank.  Their 
father  returned  to  his  division  and  his  wife,  and 
only  rarely  sent  his  sons  large  sheets  of  grey 
paper,  scrawled  over  in  a  bold  clerkly  hand.  At 
the  bottom  of  these  sheets  stood  in  letters, 
enclosed  carefully  in  scroll-work,  the  words, 
*  Piotr  Kirsanov,  General-Major.'  In  1835 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  left  the  university,  a  graduate, 
and  in  the  same  year  General  Kirsanov  was 
put  on  to  the  retired  list  after  an  unsuccessful 
review,  and  came  to  Petersburg  with  his  wife  to 
live.  He  was  about  to  take  a  house  in  the 
Tavrichesky  Gardens,  and  had  joined  the 
English  club,  but  he  died  suddenly  of  an  apo- 

3 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

plectic  fit.  Agathokleya  Kuzminishna  soon 
followed  him  ;  she  could  not  accustom  herself 
to  a  dull  life  in  the  capital  ;  she  was  consumed 
by  the  ennui  of  existence  away  from  the  regi- 
ment. Meanwhile  Nikolai  Petrovitch  had 
already,  in  his  parents'  lifetime  and  to  their 
no  slight  chagrin,  had  time  to  fall  in  love  with 
the  daughter  of  his  landlord,  a  petty  official, 
Prepolovensky.  She  was  a  pretty  and,  as  it  is 
called,  '  advanced '  girl  ;  she  used  to  read  the 
serious  articles  in  the  '  Science '  column  of  the 
journals.  He  married  her  directly  the  term  of 
mourning  was  over ;  and  leaving  the  civil  service 
in  which  his  father  had  by  favour  procured  him 
a  post,  was  perfectly  blissful  with  his  Masha, 
first  in  a  country  villa  near  the  Lyesny  Institute, 
afterwards  in  town  in  a  pretty  little  flat  with 
a  clean  staircase  and  a  draughty  drawing- 
room,  and  then  in  the  country,  where  he  settled 
finally,  and  where  in  a  short  time  a  son,  Arkady, 
was  born  to  him.  The  young  couple  lived 
very  happily  and  peacefully  ;  they  were  scarcely 
ever  apart ;  they  read  together,  sang  and  played 
duets  together  on  the  piano  ;  she  tended  her 
flowers  and  looked  after  the  poultry-yard ;  he 
sometimes  went  hunting,  and  busied  himself 
with  the  estate,  while  Arkady  grew  and  grew 
in  the  same  happy  and  peaceful  way.  Ten  years 
passed  like  a  dream.     In   1847  Kirsanov's  wife 

4 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

died.  He  almost  succumbed  to  this  blow ;  in  a 
few  weeks  his  hair  was  grey ;  he  was  getting 
ready  to  go  abroad,  if  possible  to  distract  his 
mind  .  .  .  but  then  came  the  year  1848.  He 
returned  unwillingly  to  the  country,  and,  after 
a  rather  prolonged  period  of  inactivity,  began 
to  take  an  interest  in  improvements  in  the 
management  of  his  land.  In  1855  he  brought 
his  son  to  the  university ;  he  spent  three 
winters  with  him  in  Petersburg,  hardly  going 
out  anywhere,  and  trying  to  make  acquaintance 
with  Arkady's  young  companions.  The  last 
winter  he  had  not  been  able  to  go,  and  here  we 
have  seen  him  in  the  May  of  1859,  already 
quite  grey,  stoutish,  and  rather  bent,  waiting 
for  his  son,  who  had  just  taken  his  degree,  as 
once  he  had  taken  it  himself 

The  servant,  from  a  feeling  of  propriety,  and 
perhaps,  too,  not  anxious  to  remain  under  the 
master's  eye,  had  gone  to  the  gate,  and  was 
smoking  a  pipe.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  bent  his 
head,  and  began  staring  at  the  crumbling  steps  ; 
a  big  mottled  fowl  walked  sedately  towards  him, 
treading  firmly  with  its  great  yellow  legs ;  a 
muddy  cat  gave  him  an  unfriendly  look,  twisting 
herself  coyly  round  the  railing.  The  sun  was 
scorching  ;  from  the  half-dark  passage  of  the 
posting  station  came  an  odour  of  hot  rye-bread. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  fell  to  dreaming.     *  My  son 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

...  a  graduate  .  .  .  Arkasha  .  .  .'  were  the 
ideas  that  continually  came  round  again  and 
again  in  his  head  ;  he  tried  to  think  of  some- 
thing else,  and  again  the  same  thoughts  returned. 
He  remembered  his  dead  wife.  .  .  .  '  She  did 
not  live  to  see  it ! '  he  murmured  sadly.  A 
plump,  dark-blue  pigeon  flew  into  the  road,  and 
hurriedly  went  to  drink  in  a  puddle  near  the 
well.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  began  looking  at  it, 
but  his  ear  had  already  caught  the  sound  of 
approaching  wheels. 

'  It  sounds  as  if  they  're  coming  sir/  an- 
nounced the  servant,  popping  in  from  the  gate- 
way. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  jumped  up,  and  bent  his 
eyes  on  the  road.  A  carriage  appeared  with 
three  posting-horses  harnessed  abreast ;  in  the 
carriage  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  band 
of  a  student's  cap,  the  familiar  outline  of  a  dear 
face. 

'  Arkasha  !  Arkasha  ! '  cried  Kirsanov,  and 
he  ran  waving  his  hands.  ...  A  few  instants 
later,  his  lips  were  pressed  to  the  beardless, 
dusty,  sunburnt  cheek  of  the  youthful  graduate. 


II 

*  Let  me  shake  myself  first,  daddy,'  said  Arkady, 
in  a  voice  tired  from  travelling,  but  boyish  and 
clear  as  a  bell,  as  he  gaily  responded  to  his 
father's  caresses  ;  *  I  am  covering  you  with  dust.' 

'  Never  mind,  never  mind,'  repeated  Nikolai 
Petrovitch,  smiling  tenderly,  and  twice  he  struck 
the  collar  of  his  son's  cloak  and  his  own  great- 
coat with  his  hand.  *  Let  me  have  a  look  at 
you  ;  let  me  have  a  look  at  you,'  he  added, 
moving  back  from  him,  but  immediately  he 
went  with  hurried  steps  towards  the  yard  of  the 
station,  calling,  *  This  way,  this  way  ;  and  horses 
at  once.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  seemed  far  more  excited 
than  his  son  ;  he  seemed  a  little  confused,  a 
little  timid.     Arkady  stopped  him. 

'  Daddy,'  he  said,  *  let  me  introduce  you  to 
my  great  friend,  Bazarov,  about  whom  I  have 
so  often  written  to  you.  He  has  been  so  good 
as  to  promise  to  stay  with  us.' 

Nikolai   Petrovitch  went  back  qui/:kly,  and 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

going  up  to  a  tall  man  in  a  long,  loose,  rough 
coat  with  tassels,  who  had  only  just  got  out  of 
the  carriage,  he  warmly  pressed  the  ungloved 
red  hand,  which  the  latter  did  not  at  once  hold 
out  to  him. 

'  I  am  heartily  glad,'  he  began,  '  and  very 
grateful  for  your  kind  intention  of  visiting  us. 
.  .  .  Let  me  know  your  name,  and  your 
father's.' 

'  Yevgeny  Vassilyev,'  answered  Bazarov,  in  a 
lazy  but  manly  voice  ;  and  turning  back  the 
collar  of  his  rough  coat,  he  showed  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  his  whole  face.  It  was  long  and 
lean,  with  a  broad  forehead,  a  nose  flat  at  the 
base  and  sharper  at  the  end,  large  greenish  eyes, 
and  drooping  whiskers  of  a  sandy  colour  ;  it  was 
lighted  up  by  a  tranquil  smile,  and  showed  self- 
confidence  and  intelligence. 

*  I  hope,  dear  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  you  won't 
be  dull  with  us,'  continued  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 

Bazarov's  thin  lips  moved  just  perceptibly, 
though  he  made  no  reply,  but  merely  took  off 
his  cap.  His  long,  thick  hair  did  not  hide  the 
prominent  bumps  on  his  head. 

*  Then,  Arkady,'  Nikolai  Petrovitch  began 
again,  turning  to  his  son,  '  shall  the  horses  be 
put  to  at  once  ?  or  would  you  like  to  rest  ? ' 

*  We  will  rest  at  home,  daddy ;  tell  them  to 

harness  the  horses.' 

8 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

At  once,  at  once/  his  father  assented  *  Hey, 
Piotr,  do  you  hear  ?  Get  things  ready,  my  good 
boy ;  look  sharp.' 

Piotr,  who  as  a  modernised  servant  had  not 
kissed  the  young  master's  hand,  but  only  bowed 
to  him  from  a  distance,  again  vanished  through 
the  gateway. 

*  I  came  here  with  the  carriage,  but  there  are 
three  horses  for  your  coach  too,'  said  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  fussily,  while  Arkady  drank  some 
water  from  an  iron  dipper  brought  him  by  the 
woman  in  charge  of  the  station,  and  Bazarov 
began  smoking  a  pipe  and  went  up  to  the 
driver,  who  was  taking  out  the  horses  ;  '  there 
are  only  two  seats  in  the  carriage,  and  I  don't 
know  how  your  friend'  .  .  . 

*  He  will  go  in  the  coach,'  interposed  Arkady 
in  an  undertone.  *  You  must  not  stand  on  cere- 
mony with  him,  please.  He 's  a  splendid  fellow, 
so  simple — you  will  see.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch's  coachman  brought  the 
horses  round. 

*  Come,  hurry  up,  bushy  beard  ! '  said  Bazarov, 
addressing  the  driv^er. 

*  Do  you  hear,  Mityuha,'  put  in  another  driver, 
standing  by  with  his  hands  thrust  behind  him 
into  the  opening  of  his  sheepskin  coat,  '  what 
the  gentleman  called  you  ?  It 's  a  bushy  beard 
v'ou  are  too.' 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

Mityuha  only  gave  a  jog  to  his  hat  and  pulled 
the  reins  off  the  heated  shaft-horse. 

*  Look  sharp,  look  sharp,  lads,  lend  a  hand,' 
cried  Nikolai  Petrovitch  ;  *  there  '11  be  some- 
thing to  drink  our  health  with  ! ' 

In  a  few  minutes  the  horses  were  harnessed ; 
the  father  and  son  were  installed  in  the  carriage ; 
Piotr  climbed  up  on  to  the  box  ;  Bazarov 
jumped  into  the  coach,  and  nestled  his  head 
down  into  the  leather  cushion ;  and  both  the 
vehicles  rolled  away. 


19 


Ill 

*  So  here  you  are,  a  graduate  at  last,  and  come 
home  again,'  said  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  touching 
Arkady  now  on  the  shoulder,  now  on  the  knee. 

*  At  last ! ' 

'And  how  is  uncle?  quite  well?'  asked  Arkady 
who,  in  spite  of  the  genuine,  almost  childish 
delight  filling  his  heart,  wanted  as  soon  as 
possible  to  turn  the  conversation  from  the  emo- 
tional into  a  commonplace  channel. 

*  Quite  well.  He  was  thinking  of  coming 
with  me  to  meet  you,  but  for  some  reason  or 
other  he  gave  up  the  idea.' 

'  And  how  long  have  you  been  waiting  for 
me  ? '  inquired  Arkady. 
'  Oh,  about  five  hours.' 

*  Dear  old  dad  ! ' 

Arkady  turned  round  quickly  to  his  father, 
and  gave  him  a  sounding  kiss  on  the  cheek. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  gave  vent  to  a  low 
chuckle. 

*  I  have  got  such  a  capital  horse  for  you  ! '  he 

II 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

began.  '  You  will  see.  And  your  room  has 
been  fresh  papered.' 

'  And  is  there  a  room  for  Bazarov  ? 

'  We  will  find  one  for  him  too.' 

'  Please,  dad,  make  much  of  him.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  I  prize  his  friendship.' 

'  Have  you  made  friends  with  him  lately  ? ' 

*  Yes,  quite  lately.' 

'  Ah,  that's  how  it  is  I  did  not  see  him  last 
winter.     What  does  he  study  ? ' 

*  His  chief  subject  is  natural  science.  But  he 
knows  everything.  Next  year  he  wants  to  take 
his  doctor's  degree.' 

'  Ah !  he  's  in  the  medical  faculty,'  observed 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  and  he  was  silent  for  a 
little.  '  Piotr,'  he  went  on,  stretching  out 
his  hand,  '  aren't  those  our  peasants  driving 
along  ?  * 

Piotr  looked  where  his  master  was  pointing. 
Some  carts  harnessed  with  unbridled  horses 
were  moving  rapidly  along  a  narrow  by-road. 
In  each  cart  there  were  one  or  two  peasants  in 
sheepskin  coats,  unbuttoned. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  replied  Piotr. 

'  Where  are  they  going, — to  the  town  } ' 

*  To  the  town,  I  suppose.  To  the  gin-shop,' 
he  added  contemptuously,  turning  slightly  to- 
wards the  coachman,  as  though  he  would  appeal 
to  him.   But  the  latter  did  not  stir  a  muscle  ;  he 

13 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

was  a  man  of  the  old  stamp,  and  did  not  share 
the  modern  views  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion. 

*  I  have  had  a  lot  of  bother  with  the  peasants 
this  year,'  pursued  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  turning 
to  his  son.  *  They  won't  pay  their  rent.  What 
is  one  to  do  ? ' 

*  But  do  you  like  your  hired  labourers  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  said  Nikolai  Petrovitch  between  his 
teeth.  *  They  're  being  set  against  me,  that's  the 
mischief;  and  they  don't  do  their  best.  They 
spoil  the  tools.  But  they  have  tilled  the  land 
pretty  fairly.  When  things  have  settled  down 
a  bit,  it  will  be  all  right.  Do  you  take  an  interest 
in  farming  now  .'' ' 

'  You  've  no  shade ;  that 's  a  pity,'  re» 
marked  Arkady,  without  answering  the  last 
question. 

'  I  have  had  a  great  awning  put  up  on  the 
north  side  over  the  balcony,'  observed  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  ;  *  now  we  can  have  dinner  even  ia 
the  open  air.' 

*  It'll  be  rather  too  like  a  summer  villa,  .  .  r 
Still,  that 's  all  nonsense.  What  air  though  here ! 
How  delicious  it  smells  !  Really  I  fancy  there 's 
nowhere  such  fragrance  in  the  world  as  in  the 
meadows  here  !     And  the  sky  too.* 

Arkady  suddenly  stopped  short, cast  a  stealthy 
look  behind  him,  and  said  no  more, 

1.3 


FATHERS  AMD    CHILDREN 

'  Of  course,'  observed  Nikolai  Petrovitch, '  you 
were  born  here,  and  so  everything  is  bound  to 
strike  you  in  a  special ' 

*  Come,  dad,  that  makes  no  difference  where 
a  man  is  born.' 

*  Still ' 

*  No  ;  it  makes  absolutely  no  difference.' 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  gave  a  sidelong  glance  at 

his  son,  and  the  carriage  went  on  half-a-mile 
further  before  the  conversation  was  renewed 
between  them. 

'  I  don't  recollect  whether  I  wrote  to  you,' 
began  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  '  your  old  nurse, 
Vegorovna,  is  dead.' 

*  Really  ?  Poor  thing  !  Is  Prokofitch  still 
living  ? ' 

'Yes,  and  not  a  bit  changed.  As  grumbling 
as  ever.  In  fact,  you  won't  find  many  changes 
at  Maryino.' 

'  Have  you  still  the  same  bailiff?' 

*  Well,  to  be  sure  there  is  a  change  there.  I 
decided  not  to  keep  about  me  any  freed  serfs, 
who  have  been  house  servants,  or,  at  least,  not  to 
intrust  them  with  duties  of  any  responsibility.* 
(Arkady  glanced  towards  Piotr.)  *  //  est  litre,  en 
effet!  observed  Nikolai  Petrovitch  in  an  under- 
tone ;  *  but,  you  see,  he 's  only  a  valet.  Now  I 
have  a  bailiff,  a  townsman  ;  he  seems  a  prac- 
tical fellow.     I  pay  him  two  hundred  and  fifty 

14 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

roubles  a  year.  But/  added  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
rubbing  his  forehead  and  eyebrows  with  his 
hand,  which  was  always  an  indication  with  him 
of  inward  embarrassment,  '  I  told  you  just  now 
that  you  would  not  find  changes  at  Maryino.  .  .  . 
That 's  not  quite  correct.  I  think  it  my  duty  to 
prepare  you,  though  .  .  .' 

He  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  then  went  on 
in  French. 

'  A  severe  moralist  would  regard  my  openness 
as  improper ;  but,  in  the  first  place,  it  can't  be 
concealed,  and  secondly,  you  are  aware  I  have 
always  had  peculiar  ideas  as  regards  the  rela- 
tion of  father  and  son.  Though,  of  course,  you 
would  be  right  in  blaming  me.  At  my  age.  .  .  . 
In  short  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  that  girl,  about  whom  you 
have  probably  heard  already  .  .  .' 

'  Fenitchka,? '  asked  Arkady  easily. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  blushed.  *  Don't  mention 
her  name  aloud,  please.  .  .  .  Well  .  . .  she  is  living 
with  me  now.  I  have  installed  her  in  the  house 
. .  .  there  were  two  little  rooms  there.  But  that 
can  all  be  changed.' 

'  Goodness,  daddy,  what  for  ?  ' 

*  Your  friend  is  going  to  stay  with  us  ...  it 
would  be  awkward  .  .  .' 

*  Please,  don't  be  uneasy  on  Bazarov's  account. 
He 's  above  all  that.' 

Well,  but  you  too,'  added  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 

11 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

The  little  lodge  is  so  horrid — that 's  the  worst 
of  it' 

*  Goodness,  dad,'  interposed  Arkady,  '  it's  as  if 
you  were  apologising  ;  I  wonder  you  're  not 
ashamed.' 

*  Of  course,  I  ought  to  be  ashamed,'  answered 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  flushing  more  and  more. 

*  Nonsense,  dad,  nonsense  ;  please  don't ! ' 
Arkady  smiled  affectionately.  '  What  a  thing 
to  apologise  for ! '  he  thought  to  himself,  and 
his  heart  was  filled  with  a  feeling  of  con- 
descending tenderness  for  his  kind,  soft- 
hearted father,  mixed  with  a  sense  of  secret 
superiority.  *  Please,  stop,'  he  repeated  once 
more,  instinctively  revelling  in  a  consciousness 
of  his  own  advanced  and  emancipated  condi- 
tion. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  glanced  at  him  from  under 

the  fingers  of  the  hand  with  which  he  was  still 

rubbing  his  forehead,  and  there  was  a  pang  in 

his  heart.  .  .  .  But  at  once  he  blamed  himself 

.  for  it. 

*  Here  are  our  meadows  at  last,*  he  said  after 
a  long  silence. 

'  And  that  in  front  is  our  forest,  isn't  it  ?  *' 
asked  Arkady. 

*  Yes.  Only  I  have  sold  the  timber.  This 
year  they  will  cut  it  down. 

*Why  did  you  sell  it?' 

i6 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'The  money  was  needed  ;  besides,  that  land  is 
to  go  to  the  peasants.' 

*  Who  don't  pay  you  their  rent  ? ' 

*  That 's  their  affair  ;  besides,  the>'  will  pay  it 
some  day.' 

*  I  am  sorry  about  the  forest,'  observed 
Arkady,  and  he  began  to  look  about  him. 

The  country  through  which  they  were  driving 
could  not  be  called  picturesque.  Fields  upon 
fields  stretched  all  along  to  the  very  horizon, 
now  sloping  gently  upwards,  then  dropping  down 
again ;  in  some  places  woods  were  to  be  seen, 
and  winding  ravines,  planted  with  low,  scanty 
bushes,  recalling  vividly  the  representation  of 
them  on  the  old-fashioned  maps  of  the  times  of 
Catherine.  They  came  upon  little  streams  too 
with  hollow  banks ;  and  tiny  lakes  with  nar- 
row dykes  ;  and  little  villages,  with  low  hovels 
under  dark  and  often  tumble-down  roofs,  and 
slanting  barns  with  walls  woven  of  brushwood 
and  gaping  doorways  beside  neglected  thresh- 
ing-floors ;  and  churches,  some  brick-built,  with 
stucco  peeling  off  in  patches,  others  wooden,  with 
crosses  fallen  askew,  and  overgrown  grave-yards. 
Slowly  Arkady's  heart  sank.  To  complete  the 
picture,  the  peasants  they  met  were  all  in  tatters 
and  on  the  sorriest  little  nags  ;  the  willows, 
with  their  trunks  stripped  of  bark,  and  broken 
branches,  stood  like  ragged  beggars  along  the 

17  B 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

roadside ;  cows  lean  and  shaggy  and  looking 
pinched  up  by  hunger,  were  greedily  tearing  at 
the  grass  along  the  ditches.  They  looked  as 
though  they  had  just  been  snatched  out  of  the 
murderous  clutches  of  some  threatening  monster; 
and  the  piteous  state  of  the  weak,  stan^ed 
beasts  in  the  midst  of  the  lovely  spring  day, 
called  up,  like  a  white  phantom,  the  endless, 
comfortless  winter  with  its  storms,  and  frosts, 
and  snows.  ...  *  No,'  thought  Arkady,  '  this  is 
not  a  rich  country  ;  it  does  not  impress  one  by 
plenty  or  industry;  it  can't,  it  can't  go  on  like  this, 
reforms  are  absolutely  necessary  .  .  .  but  how 
is  one  to  carry  them  out,  how  is  one  to  begin  ?  * 
Such  were  Arkady's  reflections  ;  .  .  .  but  even 
as  he  reflected,  the  spring  regained  its  sway. 
All  around  was  golden  green,  all — trees,  bushes, 
grass — shone  and  stirred  gently  in  wide  waves 
under  the  soft  breath  of  the  warm  wind  ;  from 
all  sides  flooded  the  endless  trilling  music  of 
the  larks ;  the  peewits  were  calling  as  they 
hovered  over  the  low-lying  meadows,  or  noise- 
lessly ran  over  the  tussocks  of  grass  ;  the  rooks 
strutted  among  the  half-grown  short  spring- 
corn,  standing  out  black  against  its  tender 
green  ;  they  disappeared  in  the  already  whiten- 
ing rye,  only  from  time  to  time  their  heads 
peeped  out  amid  its  grey  waves.  Arkady  gazed 
and  gazed,  and  his  reflections  grew  slowly  faintei 

i8 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

and  passed  away.  .  .  .  He  flung  off  his  cloak 
and  turned  to  his  father,  with  a  face  so  bright 
and  boyish,  that  the  latter  gave  him  another 
hug. 

'We're  not  far  off  now,'  remarked  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  ;  *  we  have  only  to  get  up  this  hill, 
and  the  house  will  be  in  sight.  We  shall  get 
on  together  splendidly,  Arkasha ;  you  shall 
help  me  in  farming  the  estate,  if  only  it  isn't 
a  bore  to  you.  We  must  draw  close  to  one 
another  now,  and  learn  to  know  each  other 
thoroughly,  mustn't  we  ! ' 

*  Of  course,'  said  Arkady ;  '  but  what  an 
exquisite  day  it  is  to-day  ! ' 

*To  welcome  you,  my  dear  boy.     Yes,  it's' 
spring  in  its  full   loveliness.     Though  I  agree 
with  Pushkin — do  you  remember  in  Yevgeny 
Onyegin — 

*  To  me  how  sad  thy  coming  is, 
Spring,  spring,  sweet  time  of  love  ! 
What  .  .  .' 

*  Arkady ! '  called  Bazarov's  voice  from  the 
coach,  '  send  me  a  match ;  I  've  nothing  to 
light  my  pipe  with.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  stopped,  while  Arkady,  who 
had  begun  listening  to  him  with  some  surprise, 
though  with  sympathy  too,  made  haste  to  pull 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

a  silver  matchbox  out  of  liis  pocket,  and  sent 
it  to  Bazarov  by  Piotr. 

*Will  you  have  a  cigar?'  shouted  Bazarov 
again. 

'  Thanks,'  answered  Arkady. 

Piotr  returned  to  the  carriage,  and  handed 
him  with  the  match-box  a  thick  black  cigar, 
which  Arkady  began  to  smoke  promptly, 
diffusing  about  him  such  a  strong  and  pungent 
odour  of  cheap  tobacco,  that  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
who  had  never  been  a  smoker  from  his  youth 
up,  was  forced  to  turn  away  his  head,  as  im- 
perceptibly as  he  could  for  fear  of  wounding  his 
son. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  the  two  carriages 
drew  up  before  the  steps  of  a  new  wooden  house, 
painted  grey,  with  a  red  iron  roof  This  was 
Maryino,  also  known  as  New- Wick,  or,  as  the 
peasants  had  nicknamed  it,  Poverty  Farm. 


IV 


No  crowd  of  house-serfs  ran  out  on  to  the 
steps  to  meet  the  gentlemen  ;  a  little  girl  of 
twelve  years  old  made  her  appearance  alone. 
After  her  there  came  out  of  the  house  a  young 
lad,  very  like  Piotr,  dressed  in  a  coat  of  grey 
livery,  with  white  armorial  buttons,  the  servant 
of  Pavel  Petrovitch  Kirsanov.  Without  speak- 
ing, he  opened  the  door  of  the  carriage,  and 
unbuttoned  the  apron  of  the  coach.  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  with  his  son  and  Bazarov  walked 
through  a  dark  and  almost  empty  hall,  from 
behind  the  door  of  which  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  young  woman's  face,  into  a  draw- 
ing room  furnished  in  the  most  modern  style. 

'Here  we  are  at  home,'  said  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch, taking  off  his  cap,  and  shaking  back  his 
hair.  *  That 's  the  great  thing ;  now  we  must 
have  supper  and  rest' 

'A  meal  would  not  come  amiss,  certainly,' 
observed  Bazarov,  stretching,  and  he  dropped 
on  to  a  sofa. 

21 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  Yes,  yes,  let  us  have  supper,  supper  directly.' 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  with  no  apparent  reason 
stamped  his  foot.  *  And  here  just  at  the  right 
moment  comes  Prokofitch.' 

A  man  about  sixty  entered,  white-haired, 
thin,  and  swarthy,  in  a  cinnamon-coloured 
dress-coat  with  brass  buttons,  and  a  pink  necker- 
chief. He  smirked,  went  up  to  kiss  Arkady's 
hand,  and  bowing  to  the  guest  retreated  to  the 
door,  and  put  his  hands  behind  him. 

*  Here  he  is,  Prokofitch,'  began  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch ;  '  he 's  come  back  to  us  at  last  .  .  .  Well, 
how  do  you  think  him  looking  ? ' 

*  As  well  as  could  be,'  said  the  old  man,  and 
was  grinning  again,  but  he  quickly  knitted  his 
bushy  brows.  *  You  wish  supper  to  be  served  ?' 
he  said  impressively. 

'  Yes,  yes,  please.  But  won't  you  like  to  go 
to  your  room  first,  Yevgeny  Vassllyitch?' 

*  No,  thanks  ;  I  don't  care  about  it.  Only 
give  orders  for  my  little  box  to  be  taken  there, 
and  this  garment,  too,'  he  added,  taking  off  his 
•frieze  overcoat. 

*  Certainly.  Prokofitch,  take  the  gentleman's 
coat.'  (Prokofitch,  with  an  air  of  perplexity, 
picked  up  Bazarov's  '  garment '  in  both  hands, 
and  holding  it  high  above  his  head,  retreated 
on  tiptoe.)  *  And  you,  Arkady,  are  you  going 
to  your  room  for  a  minute  ? ' 

22 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*Yes,  I  must  wash,'  answered  Arkady,  and 
was  just  moving  towards  the  door,  but  at  that 
instant  there  came  into  the  drawing-room  a 
man  of  medium  height,  dressed  in  a  dark  Eng- 
glish  suit,  a  fashionable  low  cravat,  and  kid 
shoes,  Pavel  Petrovitch  Kirsanov.  He  looked 
about  forty-five :  his  close-cropped,  grey  hair 
shone  with  a  dark  lustre,  like  new  silver ;  his 
face,  yellow  but  free  from  wrinkles,  was  excep- 
tionally regular  and  pure  in  line,  as  though 
carved  by  a  light  and  delicate  chisel,  and 
showed  traces  of  remarkable  beauty ;  specially 
fine  were  his  clear,  black,  almond-shaped  eyes. 
The  whole  person  of  Arkady's  uncle,  with 
its  aristocratic  elegance,  had  preserved  the 
gracefulness  of  youth  and  that  air  of  striving 
upwards,  away  from  earth,  which  for  the  most 
part  is  lost  after  the  twenties  are  past. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  took  out  of  his  trouser 
pocket  his  exquisite  hand  with  its  long  tapering 
pink  nails,  a  hand  which  seemed  still  more 
exquisite  from  the  snowy  whiteness  of  the  cuff, 
buttoned  with  a  single,  big  opal,  and  gave  it  to 
his  nephew.  After  a  preliminary  handshake  in 
the  European  style,  he  kissed  him  thrice  after 
the  Russian  fashion,  that  is  to  say,  he  touched 
his  cheek  three  times  with  his  perfumed  mous- 
taches, and  said,  *  Welcome.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  presented  him  to  Bazarov ; 

23 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

Pavel  Petrovitch  greeted  him  with  a  slight  in- 
clination  of  his  supple  figure,  and  a  slight  smile, 
but  he  did  not  give  him  his  hand,  and  even  put 
it  back  into  his  pocket. 

'  I  had  begun  to  think  you  were  not  coming 
to-day,'  he  began  in  a  musical  voice,  with  a 
genial  swing  and  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  as  he 
showed  his  splendid  white  teeth.  *  Did  anything 
happen  on  the  road  ? ' 

*  Nothing  happened,'  answered  Arkady  ;  *  we 
were  rather  slow.  But  we're  as  hungry  as 
wolves  now.  Hurry  up  Prokofitch,  dad  ;  and 
I  '11  be  back  directly.' 

'  Stay,  I  'm  coming  with  you,'  cried  Bazarov, 
pulling  himself  up  suddenly  from  the  sofa.  Both 
the  young  men  went  out. 

*  Who  is  he  ? '  asked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

'  A  friend  of  Arkasha's  ;  according  to  him,  a 
very  clever  fellow.' 

*  Is  he  going  to  stay  with  us  ? ' 
'  Yes.' 

'  That  unkempt  creature  ? ' 

*  Why,  yes.' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  drummed  with  his  finger 
tips  on  the  table.  '  I  fancy  Arkady  s'esf 
degonrdil  he  remarked.  '  I  'm  glad  he  has  come 
back.' 

At  supper  there  was  little  conversation. 
Bazarov  especially  said  nothing,  but  he  ate  a 

24 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

great  deal.  Nikolai  Petrovitr.h  related  various 
incidents  in  what  he  called  his  career  as  a 
farmer,  talked  about  the  impending  govern- 
ment measures,  about  committees,  deputations, 
the  necessity  of  introducing  machinery,  etc. 
Pavel  Petrovitch  paced  slowly  up  and  down  the 
dining-room  (he  never  ate  supper),  sometimes 
sipping  at  a  wineglass  of  red  wine,  and  less 
often  uttering  some  remark  or  rather  exclama- 
tion, of  the  nature  of  *  Ah  !  aha  1  hm  ! '  Arkady 
told  some  news  from  Petersburg,  but  he  was 
conscious  of  a  little  awkwardness,  that  awk- 
wardness, which  usually  overtakes  a  youth 
when  he  has  just  ceased  to  be  a  child,  and 
has  come  back  to  a  place  where  they  are 
accustomed  to  regard  him  and  treat  him  as  a 
child.  He  made  his  sentences  quite  unneces- 
sarily long,  avoided  the  word  '  daddy,'  and  even 
sometimes  replaced  it  by  the  word  *  father/ 
mumbled,  it  is  true,  between  his  teeth  ;  with  an 
exaggerated  carelessness  he  poured  into  his  glass 
far  more  wine  than  he  really  wanted,  and  drank 
it  all  off.  Prokofitch  did  not  take  his  eyes  off 
him,  and  kept  chewing  his  lips.  After  supper 
they  all  separated  at  once. 

*  Your  uncle's  a  queer  fish,'  Bazarov  said  to 
Arkady,  as  he  sat  in  his  dressing-gown  by  his 
bedside,  smoking  a  short  pipe.  '  Only  fancy 
such   style   in    the    country !      His    nails,   his 

25 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

nails — you  ought  to  send  them  to  an 
tion  ! ' 

'Why,   of  course,  you   don't   know,'  replied' 
Arkady.     '  He  was  a  great  swell  in  his  own  day, 
you  know.     I  will  tell  you  his  story  one  day. 
He  was   very  handsome,   you    know,  used    to 
turn  all  the  women's  heads.' 

'  Oh,  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  So  he  keeps  it  up  in 
memory  of  the  past.  It 's  a  pity  there  's  no 
one  for  him  to  fascinate  here  though.  I  kept 
staring  at  his  exquisite  collars.  They  're  like 
marble,  and  his  chin  's  shaved  simply  to  perfec- 
tion. Come,  Arkady  Nikolaitch,  isn't  that 
ridiculous  ? ' 

*  Perhaps  it  is ;  but  he 's  a  splendid  man, 
really.' 

*  An  antique  survival !  But  your  father's  a 
capital  fellow.  He  wastes  his  time  reading 
poetry,  and  doesn't  know  much  about  farming 
but  he 's  a  good-hearted  fellow.' 

*  My  father's  a  man  in  a  thousand. 

*  Did  you  notice  how  shy  and  nervous  he  is  ?  * 
Arkady  shook  his  head  as  though  he  himself 

were  not  shy  and  nervous. 

*  It 's  something  astonishing,' pursued  Bazarov, 
*  these  old  idealists,  they  develop  their  ner- 
vous systems  till  they  break  down  ...  so 
balance  is  lost.     But  good-night     In  my  room 

there's   an    English    washstand,  but  the  doot 

26 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

woj^*-  fasten.     Anyway  that  ought  to  be  en- 

'  I  raged — an   English    washstand    stands   for    \ 
progress  ! ' 

Bazarov  went  away,  and  a  sense  of  great 
happiness  came  over  Arkady.  Sweet  it  is  to 
fall  asleep  in  one's  own  home,  in  the  familiar 
bed,  under  the  quilt  worked  by  loving  hands, 
perhaps  a  dear  nurse's  hands,  those  kind,  tender, 
untiring  hands.  Arkady  remembered  Yegor- 
ovna,  and  sighed  and  wished  her  peace  in  - 
heaven.  .  .  .  For  himself  he  made  no  prayer. 

Both  he  and  Bazarov  were  soon  asleep,  but 
others  in  the  house  were  awake  long  after 
His  son's  return  had  agitated  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch.  He  lay  down  in  bed,  but  did  not  put  out 
the  candles,  and  his  head  propped  on  his  hand, 
he  fell  into  long  reveries.  His  brother  was 
sitting  long  after  midnight  in  his  study,  in  a 
wide  armchair  before  the  fireplace,  on  which 
there  smouldered  some  faintly  glowing  embers. 
Pavel  Petrovitch  was  not  undressed,  only  som.e 
red  Chinese  slippers  had  replaced  the  kid  shoes 
on  his  feet.  He  held  in  his  hand  the  last 
number  of  Galigna?ii^  but  he  was  not  reading  ; 
he  gazed  fixedly  into  the  grate,  where  a  bluish 
flame  flickered,  dying  down,  then  flaring  up 
again.  .  .  .  God  knows  where  his  thoughts  were 
rambling,  but  they  were  not  rambling  in  the 
past  only ;  the  expression  of  his  face  was  con- 

27 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

centrated  and  surly,  which  is  not  the  way  when 
a  man  is  absorbed  solely  in  recollections.  In  a 
small  back  room  there  sat,  on  a  large  chest, 
a  young  woman  in  a  blue  dressing  jacket  with 
a  white  kerchief  thrown  over  her  dark  hair, 
Fenitchka.  She  was  half  listening,  half  dozing, 
and  often  looked  across  towards  the  open  door 
through  which  a  child's  cradle  was  visible,  and 
the  regular  breathing  of  a  sleeping  baby  could  be 
heard. 


28 


The  next  morning  Bazarov  woke  up  earlier 
than  any  one  and  went  out  of  the  house.  '  Oh, 
my ! '  he  thought,  looking  about  him,  *  the 
little  place  isn't  much  to  boast  of!'  When 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  divided  the  land  with 
his  peasants,  he  had  had  to  build  his  new 
manor-house  on  four  acres  of  perfectly  flat  and 
barren  land.  He  had  built  a  house,  offices,  and 
farm  buildings,  laid  out  a  garden,  dug  a  pond, 
and  sunk  two  wells ;  but  the  young  trees  had 
not  done  well,  very  little  water  had  collected  in 
the  pond,  and  that  in  the  wells  tasted  brackish. 
Only  one  arbour  of  lilac  and  acacia  had  grown 
fairly  well ;  they  sometimes  had  tea  and  dinner 
in  it.  In  a  few  minutes  Bazarov  had  traversed 
all  the  little  paths  of  the  garden  ;  he  went  into 
the  cattle-yard  and  the  stable,  routed  out  two 
farm-boys,  with  whom  he  made  friends  at 
once,  and  set  off  with  them  to  a  small  swamp 
about  a  mile  from  the  house  to  look  foj 
frogs. 

99 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

'What  do  you  want  frogs  for,  sir?'  one  of 
the  boys  asked  him. 

*  I  '11  tell  you  what  for,'  answered  Bazarov, 
who  possessed  the  special  faculty  of  inspiring 
confidence  in  people  of  a  lower  class,  though  he 
never  tried  to  win  them,  and  behaved  very 
casually  with  them  ;  *  I  shall  cut  the  frog  open, 
and  see  what 's  going  on  in  his  inside,  and  then, 
as  you  and  I  are  much  the  same  as  frogs, 
only  that  we  walk  on  legs,  I  shall  know  what 's 
going  on  inside  us  too.' 

*  And  what  do  you  want  to  know  that  for  ? ' 

*  So  as  not  to  make  a  mistake,  if  you  're 
taken  ill,  and  I  have  to  cure  you.' 

*  Are  you  a  doctor  then  ?  ' 

*  Yes.' 

*  Vaska,  do  you  hear,  the  gentleman  says  you 
and  I  are  the  same  as  frosts,  that 's  funny ! ' 

*  I  'm  afraid  of  frogs,'  observed  Vaska,  a  boy  of 
seven,  with  a  head  as  white  as  flax,  and  bare  feet, 
dressed  in  a  grey  smock  with  a  stand-up  collar. 

•What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of?  Do  they 
bite  ? ' 

*  There,  paddle  into  the  water,  philosophers,' 
said  Bazarov. 

Meanwhile  Nikolai  Petrovitch  too  had  waked 
up,  and  gone  in  to  see  Arkady,  whom  he  found 
dressed.  The  father  and  son  went  out  on  to 
the   terrace   under  the  shelter  of  the  awning ; 

30 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

near  the  balustrade,  on  the  table,  among  great 
bunches  of  lilac,  the  samovar  was  already  boil- 
ing. A  little  girl  came  up,  the  same  who  had 
been  the  first  to  meet  them  at  the  steps  on 
their  arrival  the  evening  before.  In  a  shrill 
voice  she  said — 

'Fedosya  Nikolaevna  is  not  quite  well,  she 
cannot  come ;  she  gave  orders  to  ask  you,  will 
you  please  to  pour  out  tea  yourself,  or  should 
she  send  Dunyasha  ?  ' 

'  I  will  pour  out  myself,  myself,'  interposed 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  hurriedly.  'Arkady,  how 
do  you  take  your  tea,  with  cream,  or  with 
lemon?' 

'  With  cream,'  answered  Arkady  ;  and  after  a 
brief  silence,  he  uttered  interrogatively,  'Daddy?' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  in  confusion  looked  at  his 
son. 

'  Well  ?  '  he  said. 

Arkady  dropped  his  eyes. 

*  Forgive  me,  dad,  if  my  question  seems  un- 
suitable to  you,'  he  began,  *  but  you  yourself,  by 
your  openness  yesterday,  encourage  me  to  be 
open  .  .  .  you  will  not  be  angry  .  .  .  ? ' 

'  Go  on.' 

'  You  give  me  confidence  to  ask  you.  .  .  .  Isn't 
the  reason,  Fen  .  .  .  isn't  the  reason  she  will  not 
come  here  to  pour  out  tea,  because  I  'm  here  ?  * 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  turned  slightly  away. 

31 


\ 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

'  Perhaps,'  he  said,  at  last,  '  she  supposes  .  .  ., 
she  is  ashamed.' 

Arkady  turned  a  rapid  glance  on  his  father. 

*  She  has  no  need  to  be  ashamed.  In  the  first 
place,  you  are  aware  of  my  views '  (it  was  very 
sweet  to  Arkady  to  utter  that  word) ;  *  and 
secondly,  could  I  be  willing  to  hamper  your  life, 
your  habits  in  the  least  thing  }  Besides,  I  am 
sure  you  could  not  make  a  bad  choice  ;  if  you 
have  allowed  her  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with 
you,  she  must  be  worthy  of  it ;  in  any  case,  a 
son  cannot  judge  his  father, — least  of  all,  I,  and 
least  of  all  such  a  father  who,  like  you,  has  never 
hampered  my  liberty  in  anything.' 

Arkady's  voice  had  been  shaky  at  the  begin- 
ning ;  he  felt  himself  magnanimous,  though  at 
the  same  time  he  realised  he  was  delivering 
something  of  the  nature  of  a  lecture  to  his 
father ;  but  the  sound  of  one's  own  voice  has 
a  powerful  effect  on  any  man,  and  Arkady 
brought  out  his  last  words  resolutely,  even  with 
emphasis. 

*  Thanks,  Arkasha,'  said  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
thickly,  and  his  fingers  again  strayed  over  his 
eyebrows  and  forehead.  '  Your  suppositions  are 
just  in  fact  Of  course,  if  this  girl  had  not  de- 
served. ...  It  is  not  a  frivolous  caprice.  It 's 
not  easy  for  me  to  talk  to  you  about  this  ;  but 
you  will  understand  that  it  is  difficult  for  her  to 

32 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

come  here,  in  your  presence,  especially  the  first 
day  of  your  return.' 

*  In  that  case  I  will  go  to  her,'  cried  Arkady, 
with  a  fresh  rush  of  magnanimous  feeling,  and 
he  jumped  up  from  his  seat.  *  I  will  explain  to 
her  that  she  has  no  need  to  be  ashamed  before 
me.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  too  got  up. 

*  Arkady,'  he  began,  *  be  so  good  .  .  .  how  can 
.  .  .  there  ...  I  have  not  told  you  yet  .  .  .' 

But  Arkady  did  not  listen  to  him,  and  ran  off 
the  terrace.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  looked  after 
him,  and  sank  into  his  chair  overcome  by  con- 
fusion. His  heart  began  to  throb.  Did  he  at 
that  moment  realise  the  inevitable  strangeness 
of  the  future  relations  between  him  and  his  son? 
Was  he  conscious  that  Arkady  would  perhaps 
have  shown  him  more  respect  if  he  had  never 
touched  on  this  subject  at  all  ?  Did  he  reproach 
himself  for  weakness  ? — it  is  hard  to  say  ;  all 
these  feelings  were  within  him,  but  in  the  state 
of  sensations — and  vague  sensations — while  the 
flush  did  not  leave  his  face,  and  his  heart 
throbbed. 

There  was  the  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps, 
and  Arkady  came  on  to  the  terrace.  *  We  have 
made  friends,  dad ! '  he  cried,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  a  kind  of  affectionate  and  good-natured 
triumph  on  his  face.     '  Fedosya  Nikolaevna  is 

33  C 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

not  quite  well  to-day  really,  and  she  will  come 
a  little  later.  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  I  had 
a  brother  ?  I  should  have  kissed  him  last  night, 
as  I  have  kissed  him  just  now.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  tried  to  articulate  some- 
thing, tried  to  get  up  and  open  his  arms, 
Arkady  flung  himself  on  his  neck. 

*  What 's  this  ?  embracing  again  ? '  sounded 
the  voice  of  Pavel  Petrovitch  behind  them. 

Father  and  son  were  equally  rejoiced  at  his 
appearance  at  that  instant ;  there  are  positions, 
genuinely  affecting,  from  which  one  longs  to 
escape  as  soon  as  possible. 

*  Why  should  you  be  surprised  at  that  ? '  said 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  gaily.  '  Think  what  ages  I 
have  been  waiting  for  Arkasha.  I  've  not  had 
time  to  get  a  good  look  at  him  since  yesterday.' 

*  I  'm  not  at  all  surprised,'  observed  Pavel 
Petrovitch  ;  '  I  feel  not  indisposed  to  be  em- 
bracing him  myself 

Arkady  went  up  to  his  uncle,  and  again  felt 
his  cheeks  caressed  by  his  perfumed  moustache. 
Pavel  Petrovitch  sat  down  to  the  table.  He 
wore  an  elegant  morning  suit  in  the  English 
style,  and  a  gay  little  fez  on  his  head.  This  fez 
and  the  carelessly  tied  little  cravat  carried  a 
suggestion  of  the  freedom  of  country  life,  but 
the  stiff  collars  of  his  shirt — not  white,  it  is  true, 
but  striped,  as  is  correct  in  morning  dress — 

34 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

stood  Up  as  inexorably  as  ever  against  his  well- 
shaved  chin. 

'  Where 's  your  new  friend  ? '  he  asked  Arkady. 

'  He 's  not  in  the  house  ;  he  usually  gets  up 
early  and  goes  off  somewhere.  The  great  thing 
is,  we  mustn't  pay  any  attention  to  him  ;  he 
doesn't  like  ceremony.' 

*  Yes,  that 's  obvious.'  Pavel  Petrovitch  began 
deliberately  spreading  butter  on  his  bread.  *  Is 
he  going  to  stay  long  with  us  ? ' 

*  Perhaps.  He  came  here  on  the  way  to  his 
father's.' 

*  And  where  does  his  father  live  } ' 

*  In  our  province,  sixty-four  miles  from  here. 
He  has  a  small  property  there.  He  was  formerly 
an  army  doctor.' 

*  Tut,  tut,  tut !  To  be  sure,  I  kept  asking  my- 
self, "  Where  have  I  heard  that  name,  Bazarov  ?  " 
Nikolai,  do  you  remember,  in  our  father's  divi- 
sion there  was  a  surgeon  Bazarov  ? ' 

*  I  believe  there  was.' 

*  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure.  So  that  surgeon  was 
his  father.  Hm  ! '  Pavel  Petrovitch  pulled  his 
moustaches.  *  Well,  and  what  is  Mr.  Bazarov 
himself?'  he  asked,  deliberately. 

'  What  is  Bazarov  ? '   Arkady  smiled.  '  Would 
you  like  me,  uncle,  to  tell  you  what  he  really  is  ? ' 
'  If  you  will  be  so  good,  nephew.' 

*  He 's  a  nihilist' 

35 


/■ 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  Eh  ? '  inquired  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  while 
Pavel  Petrovitch  lifted  a  knife  in  the  air  with  a 
small  piece  of  butter  on  its  tip,  and  remained 
motionless. 

*  He 's  a  nihilist/  repeated  Arkady. 

*  A  nihilist;  said  Nikolai  Petrovitch.  '  That 's 
from  the  Latin,  nihil^  nothings  as  far  as  I  can 
judge  ;  the  word  must  mean  a  man  who  .  .  .  who 
accepts  nothing  ? ' 

*  Say,  "  who  respects  nothing,"  '  put  in  Pavel 
Petrovitch,  and  he  set  to  work  on  the  butter 
again. 

'  '  Who  regards  everything  from  the  critical 
point  of  view,'  observed  Arkady. 

'Isn't  that  just  the  same  thing?*  inquired 
Pavel  Petrovitch. 

'  No,  it 's  not  the  same  thing.  A  nihilist  is  a 
man  who  does  not  bow  down  before  any  autho- 
rity, who  does  not  take  any  principle  on  faith, 
whatever  reverence  that  principle  may  be  en- 
shrined in.' 

*  Well,  and  is  that  good  ? '  interrupted  Pavel 
Petrovitch. 

*  That  depends,  uncle.  Some  people  it  will 
do  good  to,  but  some  people  will  suffer  for  it' 

'Indeed.  Well, I  see  it's  not  in  our  line.  We  are 
old-fashioned  people  ;  we  imagine  that  without 
principles,  taken  as  you  say  on  faith,  there 's  no 
taking  a  step,  no  breathing.     Vous  avez  changi 

36 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

tout  cela.  God  give  you  good  health  and  the  rank 
of  a  general,  while  we  will  be  content  to  look  on 
and  admire,  worthy  .  .  .  what  was  it  ? ' 

*  Nihilists,'  Arkady  said,  speaking  very  dis- 
tinctly. 

*  Yes.  There  used  to  be  Hegelists,  and  now 
there  are  nihilists.  We  shall  see  how  you  will 
exist  in  void,  in  vacuum  ;  and  now  ring,  please, 
brother  Nikolai  Petrovitch ;  it 's  time  I  had  my 
cocoa.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  rang  the  bell  and  called, 
*  Dunyasha  ! '  But  instead  of  Dunyasha,  Fen- 
itchka  herself  came  on  to  the  terrace.  She  was 
a  young  woman  about  three-and-twenty,  with  a 
white  soft  skin,  dark  hair  and  eyes,  red,  child- 
ishly-pouting lips,  and  little  delicate  hands.  She 
wore  a  neat  print  dress  ;  a  new  blue  kerchief  lay 
lightly  on  her  plump  shoulders.  She  carried  a 
large  cup  of  cocoa,  and  setting  it  down  before 
Pavel  Petrovitch,  she  was  overwhelmed  with 
confusion  ;  the  hot  blood  rushed  in  a  wave  of 
crimson  over  the  delicate  skin  of  her  pretty  face. 
She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  stood  at  the  table, 
leaning  a  little  on  the  very  tips  of  her  fingers. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  were  ashamed  of  having 
Q,  and  at  the  same  time  felt  that  she  had 
to  come. 
1  Petrovitch  knitted  his  brows  severely^ 

fikolai  Petrovitch  looked  embarrassed. 
57 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*Good  morning,  Fenitchka/  he  muttered 
through  his  teeth. 

'  Good  morning,*  she  replied  in  a  voice  not 
loud  but  resonant,  and  with  a  sidelong  glance 
at  Arkady,  who  gave  Jier  a  friendly  smile,  she 
went  gently  away.  She  walked  with  a  slightly 
rolling  gait,  but  even  that  suited  her. 

For  some  minutes  silence  reigned  on  the 
terrace.  Pavel  Petrovitch  sipped  his  cocoa ; 
suddenly  he  raised  his  head.  '  Here  is  Sir 
Nihilist  coming  towards  us,'  he  said  in  an 
undertone. 

Bazarov  was  in  fact  approaching  through 
the  garden,  stepping  over  the  flower-beds.  His 
linen  coat  and  trousers  were  besmeared  with 
mud  ;  clinging  marsh  weed  was  twined  round 
the  crown  of  his  old  round  hat ;  in  his  right 
hand  he  held  a  small  bag  ;  in  the  bag  some- 
thing alive  was  moving.  He  quickly  drew  near 
the  terrace,  and  said  with  a  nod,  *  Good  morn- 
ing, gentlemen  ;  sorry  I  was  late  for  tea  ;  I  '11 
be  back  directly  ;  I  must  just  put  these  captives 
away.' 

*  What  have  you  there — leeches  ?'  asked  Pavel 
Petrovitch. 

*  No,  frogs.' 

*  Do  you  eat  them — or  keep  them  ? ' 

*  For  experiment,'  said  Bazarov  indifferently, 
and  he  went  off  into  the  house. 

38 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*So  he's  going  to  cut  them  up/  observed 
Pavel  Petrovitch.  *  He  has  no  faith  in  prin- 
ciples, but  he  has  faith  in  frogs.' 

Arkady  looked  compassionately  at  his  uncle ; 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  shrugged  his  shoulders 
stealthily.  Pavel  Petrovitch  himself  felt  that 
his  epigram  was  unsuccessful,  and  began  to  talk 
about  husbandry  and  the  new  bailiff,  who  had 
come  to  him  the  evening  before  to  complain 
that  a  labourer,  Foma,  *was  deboshed,'  and 
quite  unmanageable.  'He's  such  an  JEsop,' 
he  said  among  other  things ;  *  in  all  places  he 
has  protested  himself  a  worthless  fellow;  he's 
not  a  man  to  keep  his  place  ;  he  '11  walk  off  in 
a  huff  like  a  fool.' 


VI 


Bazarov  came  back,  sat  down  to  the  table,  and 
began  hastily  drinking  tea.  The  two  brothers 
looked  at  him  in  silence,  while  Arkady  stealthily 
watched  first  his  father  and  then  his  uncle. 

*  Did  you  walk  far  from  here  ? '  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch  asked  at  last. 

'  Where  you  Ve  a  little  swamp  near  the  aspen 
wood.  I  started  some  half-dozen  snipe;  you 
might  slaughter  them,  Arkady.' 

'  Aren't  you  a  sportsman  then  ? ' 

*  No.' 

'  Is  your  special  study  physics  ?'  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch  in  his  turn  inquired. 

*  Physics,  yes  ;  and  natural  science  in  general.^ 

*  They  say  the  Teutons  of  late  have  had  great 
success  in  that  line.' 

'  Yes  ;  the  Germans  are  our  teachers  in  it,' 
Bazarov  answered  carelessly. 

The  word  Teutons  instead  of  Germans,  Pavel 

Petrovitch   had   used  with   ironical    intention  ; 

none  noticed  it  however. 

40 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  Have  you  such  a  high  opinion  of  the  Ger- 
mans ? '  said  Pavel  Petrovitch,  with  exaggerated 
courtesy.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  a  secret 
irritation.  His  aristocratic  nature  was  revolted  ^  , 
by  Bazarov's  absolute  nonchalance.  This 
surgeon's  son  was  not  only  not  overawed,  he  \ 
even  gave  abrupt  and  indifferent  answers,  and 
in  the  tone  of  his  voice  there  was  something 
churlish,  almost  insolent. 

'  The  scientific  men  there  are  a  clever  lot' 
'  Ah,  ah.     To  be  sure,"  of  Russian  scientific 
men  you  have  not  such  a  flattering  opinion,  I 
dare  say  ? ' 

*  That 's  very  likely,' 

'  That 's  very  praiseworthy  self-abnegation,' 
Pavel  Petrovitch  declared,  drawing  himself  up, 
and  throwing  his  head  back.  *  But  how  is  this  ? 
Arkady  Nikolaitch  was  telling  us  just  now  that 
you  accept  no  authorities  ?  Don't  you  believe 
in  ^/ie7n  ? ' 

*  And  how  am  I  accepting  them  ?  And  what 
nm  I  to  believe  in  ?  They  tell  me  the  truth,  I 
agree,  that 's  all.' 

And  do  all  Germans  tell  the  truth?'  said 

Pavel    i  wcrovitch,   and    his    face    assumed   an 

expression     as     unsympathetic,     as     remote, 

if    he    had    withdrawn    to    some    cloudy 

ight 

'  Not  all,'  replied  Bazarov,  with  a  short  yawn. 

41 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

He  obviously  did  not  care  to  continue  the  dis- 
cussion. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  glanced  at  Arkady,  as 
though  he  would  say  to  him,  '  Your  friend 's 
polite,  I  must  say.'  *  For  my  own  part,'  he 
began  again,  not  without  some  effort,  *  I  am  so 
unregenerate  as  not  to  like  Germans.  Russian 
Germans  I  am  not  speaking  of  now  ;  we  all 
know  what  sort  of  creatures  they  are.  But  even 
German  Germans  are  not  to  my  liking.  In 
former  days  there  were  some  here  and  there  ; 
they  had — well,  Schiller,  to  be  sure,  Goethe  .  .  . 
my  brother — he  takes  a  particularly  favourable 
view  of  them.  .  .  .  But  now  they  have  all  turned 
chemists  and  materialists  .  .  .' 

*  A  good  chemist  is  twenty  times  as  useful  as 
any  poet,'  broke  in  Bazarov. 

*  Oh,  indeed,'  commented  Pavel  Petrovitch, 
and,  as  though  falling  asleep,  he  faintly  raised 
his  eyebrows.  *  You  don't  acknowledge  art 
then,  I  suppose?' 

*  The  art  of  making  money  or  of  advertising 
pills ! '  cried  Bazarov,  with  a  conte  ptuous 
laugh. 

*  Ah,  ah.  You  are  pleased  to  jest.  Is.  You 
reject  all  that,  no  doubt  ?  Granted.  "  ;  en  you 
believe  in  science  only  ? ' 

*  I  have  already  explained  to  you  that  I  dcc't 
believe    in   anything ;    and  what   is  science — 

42 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

science  in  the  abstract  ?  There  are  sciences,  as 
there  are  trades  and  crafts  ;  but  abstract  science 
doesn't  exist  at  all.' 

'  Very  good.  Well,  and  in  regard  to  the  other 
traditions  accepted  in  human  conduct,  do  you 
maintain  the  same  negative  attitude  ? ' 

'  What's  this,  an  examination  ?'  asked  Bazarov. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  turned  slightly  pale.  .  .  . 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  thought  it  his  duty  to  inter- 
pose  in  the  conversation. 

*  We  will  converse  on  this  subject  with  you 
more  in  detail  some  day,  dear  Yevgeny  VassiU 
yitch  ;  we  will  hear  your  views,  and  express  our 
own.  For  my  part,  I  am  heartily  glad  you  are 
studying  the  natural  sciences.  I  have  heard 
that  Liebig  has  made  some  wonderful  dis- 
coveries in  the  amelioration  of  soils.  You  can 
be  of  assistance  to  me  in  my  agricultural  labours ; 
you  can  give  me  some  useful  advice.' 

*  I  am  at  your  service,  Nikolai  Petrovitch  ; 
but  Liebig 's  miles  over  our  heads  !  One  has 
first  to  learn  the  a  b  c,  and  then  begin  to  read, 
and  we  haven't  set  eyes  on  the  alphabet  yet.* 

'  You  are  certainly  a  nihilist,  I  see  that,' 
thought  Nikolai  Petrovitch.  *  Still,  you  will  allow 
me  to  apply  to  you  on  occasion,'  he  added  aloud. 
*  And  now  I  fancy,  brother,  it 's  time  for  us  to  be 
going  to  have  a  talk  with  the  bailiff.' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  got  up  from  his  seat 

43 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

*  Yes/  he  said,  without  looking  at  any  one ; 
*  it's  a  misfortune  to  live  five  years  in  the  country 
like  this,  far  from  mighty  intellects  !  You  turn 
into  a  fool  directly.  You  may  try  not  to  forget 
what  you  Ve  been  taught,  but — in  a  snap  ! — 
they'll  prove  all  that's  rubbish,  and  tell  you 
that  sensible  men  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
such  foolishness,  and  that  you,  if  you  please,  are 
an  antiquated  old  fogey.  What 's  to  be  done  ? 
Young  people,  of  course,  are  cleverer  than  we 
are !' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  turned  slowly  on  his  heels, 
and  slowly  walked  away  ;  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
went  after  him. 

*  Is  he  always  like  that  ? '  Bazarov  coolly 
inquired  of  Arkady,  directly  the  door  had 
closed  behind  the  two  brothers. 

*  I  must  say,  Yevgeny,  you  weren't  nice  to 
him,'  remarked  Arkady.  *  You  have  hurt  his 
feelings.' 

*  Well,  am  I  going  to  consider  them,  these 
provincial  aristocrats  !  Why,  it 's  all  vanity, 
dandy  habits,  fatuity.  He  should  have  con- 
tinued his  career  in  Petersburg,  if  that's  his 
bent  But  there,  enough  of  him  !  I  've  found 
a  rather  rare  species  of  a  water-beetle,  Dytiscus 
tnarginatus ;  do  you  know  it  ?    I  will  show  you.' 

*  I  promised  to  tell  you  his  story,'  began 
Arkady, 

44 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  The  story  of  the  beetle  ? ' 

*  Come,  don't,  Yevgeny.  The  story  of  my 
uncle.  You  will  see  he 's  not  the  sort  of  man 
you  fancy.  He  deserves  pity  rather  than 
ridicule.' 

'  I  don't  dispute  it ;  but  why  are  you  worrying 
over  him  ? ' 

*  One  ought  to  be  just,  Yevgeny.* 

*  How  does  that  follow  ? ' 

*  No  ;  listen  .  .  .' 

And  Arkady  told  him  his  uncle's  story.  The 
reader  will  find  it  in  the  following  chapter. 


45 


VII 

Pavel  Petrovitch  Kirsanov  was  educated 

first  at  home,  like  his  younger  brother,  and  after- 
wards in  the  Corps  of  Pages.  From  childhood 
he  was  distinguished  by  remarkable  beauty  ; 
moreover  he  was  self-confident,  somewhat  ironi- 
cal, and  had  a  rather  biting  humour ;  he  could 
not  fail  to  please.  He  began  to  be  seen  every- 
where, directly  he  had  received  his  commission 
as  an  officer.  He  was  much  admired  in  society, 
and  he  indulged  every  whim,  even  every 
caprice  and  every  folly,  and  gave  himself  airs, 
but  that  too  was  attractive  in  him.  Women 
went  out  of  their  senses  over  him  ;  men  called 
him  a  coxcomb,  and  were  secretly  jealous  of  him. 
He  lived,  as  has  been  related  already,  in  the 
same  apartments  as  his  brother,  whom  he  loved 
sincerely,  though  he  was  not  at  all  like  him. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  a  little  lame,  he  had 
small,  pleasing  features  of  a  rather  melancholy 
cast,  small,  black  eyes,  and  thin,  soft  hair ;  he 

liked  being  lazy,  but  he  also  liked  reading,  and 

46 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

was  timid  in  society.  Pavel  Petrovitch  did  not 
spend  a  single  evening  at  home,  prided  himself 
on  his  ease  and  audacity  (he  was  just  bringing 
gymnastics  into  fashion  among  young  men  in 
society),  and  had  read  in  all  some  five  or  six 
French  books.  At  twenty-eight  he  was  already 
a  captain  ;  a  brilliant  career  awaited  him. 
Suddenly  everything  was  changed. 

At  that  time,  there  was  sometimes  seen  in 
Petersburg  society  a  woman  who  has  even  yet 

not  been  forgotten,  Princess  R .     She  had  a 

well-educated,  well-bred,  but  rather  stupid  hus- 
band, and  no  children.  She  used  suddenly  to 
go  abroad,  and  suddenly  to  return  to  Russia, 
and  led  an  eccentric  life  in  general.  She  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  frivolous  coquette, 
abandoned  herself  eagerly  to  every  sort  of 
pleasure,  danced  to  exhaustion,  laughed  and 
jested  with  young  men,  whom  she  received  in 
the  dim  light  of  her  drawing-room  before  dinner; 
while  at  night  she  wept  and  prayed,  found  no 
peace  in  anything,  and  often  paced  her  room 
till  morning,  wringing  her  hands  in  anguish, 
or  sat,  pale  and  chill,  over  a  psalter.  Day 
came,  and  she  was  transformed  again  into  a 
grand  lady ;  again  she  went  out,  laughed, 
chattered,  and  simply  flung  herself  headlong 
into  anything  which  could  afford  her  the 
slightest    distraction.      She   was    marvellously 

47 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

well-proportioned,  her  hair  coloured  like  gold 
and  heavy  as  gold  hung  below  her  knees,  but 
no  one  would  have  called  her  a  beauty;  in  her 
whole  face  the  only  good  point  was  her  eyes,  and 
even  her  eyes  were  not  good — they  were  grey, 
and  not  large — but  their  glance  was  swift  and 
deep,  unconcerned  to  the  point  of  audacity, 
and  thoughtful  to  the  point  of  melancholy — an 
enigmatic  glance.  There  was  a  light  of  some- 
thing extraordinary  in  them,  even  while  her 
tongue  was  lisping  the  emptiest  of  inanities. 
She  dressed  with  elaborate  care.  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch  met  her  at  a  ball,  danced  a  mazurka  with 
her,  in  the  course  of  which  she  did  not  utter  a 
single  rational  word,  and  fell  passionately  in 
love  with  her.  Being  accustomed  to  make  con- 
quests, in  this  instance,  too,  he  soon  attained 
his  object,  but  his  easy  success  did  not  damp 
his  ardour.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  in  still 
more  torturing,  still  closer  bondage  to  this 
woman,  in  whom,  even  at  the  very  moment  when 
Siie  surrendered  herself  utterly,  there  seemed 
always  something  still  mysterious  and  unattain- 
able, to  which  none  could  penetrate.  What  was 
hidden  in  that  soul — God  knows !  It  seemed 
as  though  she  were  in  the  power  of  mysterious 
forces,  incomprehensible  even  to  herself ;  they 
seemed  to  play  on  her  at  will  ;  her  intellect  was 

not  powerful  enough  to  master  their  caprices« 

48 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Her  whole  behaviour  presented  a  series  of  in- 
consistencies ;  the  only  letters  which  could  have 
awakened  her  husband's  just  suspicions,  she 
wrote  to  a  man  who  was  almost  a  stranger  to  her, 
whilst  her  love  had  always  an  element  of  melan- 
choly ;  with  a  man  she  had  chosen  as  a  lover, 
she  ceased  to  laugh  and  to  jest,  she  listened  to 
him,  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  look  of  bewilder- 
ment. Sometimes,  for  the  most  part  suddenly, 
this  bewilderment  passed  into  chill  horror  ;  her 
face  took  a  wild,  death-like  expression  ;  she 
locked  herself  up  in  her  bedroom,  and  her  maid, 
putting  her  ear  to  the  keyhole,  could  hear  her 
smothered  sobs.  More  than  once,  as  he  went 
home  after  a  tender  interview,  Kirsanov  felt 
within  him  that  heartrending,  bitter  vexation 
which  follows  on  a  total  failure. 

*  What  more  do  I  want  ? '  he  asked  himself, 
while  his  heart  was  heavy.  He  once  gave  her 
a  ring  with  a  sphinx  engraved  on  the  stone. 

*  What's  that  ? '  she  asked  ;  *  a  sphinx  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  he  answered,  '  and  that  sphinx  is  you.' 

*  I  ? '  she  queried,  and  slowly  raising  her 
enigmatical  glance  upon  him.  *  Do  you  know 
that 's  awfully  flattering  ? '  she  added  with  a 
meaningless  smile,  while  her  eyes  still  kept  the 
same  strange  look. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  suffered  even  while  Princess 

R loved  him ;  but  when  she  grew  cold  to 

49  D 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

him,  and  that  happened  rather  quickly,  he  almost 
went  out  of  his  mind.  He  was  on  the  rack,  and 
he  was  jealous  ;  he  gave  her  no  peace,  followed 
her  about  everywhere;  she  grew  sick  of  his 
pursuit  of  her,  and  she  went  abroad.  He  re- 
signed his  commission  in  spite  of  the  entreaties 
of  his  friends  and  the  exhortations  of  his 
superiors,  and  followed  the  princess  ;  four  years 
he  spent  in  foreign  countries,  at  one  time  pur- 
suing her,  at  another  time  intentionally  losing 
sight  of  her.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  he 
was  disgusted  with  his  own  lack  of  spirit  .... 
but  nothing  availed.  Her  image,  that  incom- 
prehensible, almost  meaningless,  but  bewitching 
image,  was  deeply  rooted  in  his  heart.  At 
Baden  he  once  more  regained  his  old  footing 
with  her;  it  seemed  as  though  she  had  never 
loved  him  so  passionately  .  .  .  but  in  a  month 
it  was  all  at  an  end  :  the  flame  flickered  up  for 
the  last  time  and  went  out  for  ever.  Foreseeing 
inevitable  separation,  he  wanted  at  least  to 
remain  her  friend,  as  though  friendship  with 
such  a  woman  was  possible.  .  .  .  She  secretly 
left  Baden,  and  from  that  time  steadily  avoided 
Kirsanov.  He  returned  to  Russia,  and  tried  to 
live  his  former  life  again ;  but  he  could  not  get 
back  into  the  old  groove.  He  wandered  from 
place  to  place  like  a  man  possessed ;   he  still 

went  into  society  ;  he  still  retained  the  habits  of 

50 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

a  man  of  the  world  ;  he  could  boast  of  two  or 
three  fresh  conquests  ;  but  he  no  longer  ex- 
pected anything  much  of  himself  or  of  others, 
and  he  undertook  nothing.  He  grew  old  and 
grey;  spending  all  his  evenings  at  the  club, 
jaundiced  and  bored,  and  arguing  in  bachelor 
society  became  a  necessity  for  him — a  bad  sign, 
as  we  all  know.  Marriage,  of  course,  he  did  not 
even  think  of.  Ten  years  passed  in  this  way ; 
they  passed  by  colourless  and  fruitless — and 
quickly,  fearfully  quickly.  Nowhere  does  time  fly 
past  as  in  Russia ;  in  prison  they  say  it  flies  even 
faster.  One  day  at  dinner  at  the  club,  Pavel 
Petrovitch  heard  of  the  death  of  the  Princess 

R .  She  had  died  at  Paris  in  a  state  bordering 

on  insanity.  He  got  up  from  the  table,  and  a 
long  time  he  paced  about  the  rooms  of  the 
club,  or  stood  stockstill  near  the  card-players, 
but  he  did  not  go  home  earlier  than  usual. 
Some  time  later  he  received  a  packet  addressed 
to  him;  in  it  was  the  ring  he  had  given  the 
princess.  She  had  drawn  lines  in  the  shape  of 
a  cross  over  the  sphinx  and  sent  him  word  that 
the  solution  of  the  enigma — was  the  cross. 

This  happened  at  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1848,  at  the  very  time  when  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
came  to  Petersburg,  after  the  loss  of  his  wife. 
Pavel  Petrovitch  had  scarcely  seen  his  brother 
since  the  latter  had  settled  in  the  country ;  the 

51 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

marriage  of  Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  coincided 
with  the  very  first  days  of  Pavel  Petrovitch's 
acquaintance  with  the  princess.  When  he  came 
back  from  abroad,  he  had  gone  to  him  with  the 
intention  of  staying  a  couple  of  months  with 
him,  in  sympathetic  enjoyment  of  his  happiness, 
but  he  had  only  succeeded  in  standing  a  week  of 
it.  The  difference  in  the  positions  of  the  t\vo 
brothers  was  too  great.  In  1848,  this  difference 
had  grown  less  ;  Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  lost  his 
wife,  Pavel  Petrovitch  had  lost  his  memories; 
after  the  death  of  the  princess  he  tried  not  to 
think  of  her.  But  to  Nikolai,  there  remained 
the  sense  of  a  well -spent  life,  his  son  was 
growing  up  under  his  eyes ;  Pavel,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  solitary  bachelor,  was  entering  upon 
that  indefinite  twilight  period  of  regrets  that 
are  akin  to  hopes,  and  hopes  that  are  akin  to 
regrets,  when  youth  is  over,  while  old  age  has 
not  yet  come. 

This  time  was  harder  for  Pavel  Petrovitch 
than  for  another  man ;  in  losing  his  past,  he  lost 
everything. 

*  I  will  not  invite  you  to  Maryino  now,* 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  said  to  him  one  day,  (he 
had  called  his  property  by  that  name  in  honour 
of  his  wife) ;  '  you  were  dull  there  in  my  dear 
wife's  time,  and  now  I  think  you  would  be  bored 
to  death.' 

52 


FATHERS   AND    CHILDREN 

*I  was  stupid  and  fidgety  then,'  answered  Pavel 
Petrovitch  ;  '  since  then  I  have  grown  quieter,  if 
not  wiser.  On  the  contrary,  now,  if  you  will  let 
me,  I  am  ready  to  settle  with  you  for  good.' 

For  all  answer  Nikolai  Petrovitch  embraced 
him ;  but  a  year  and  a  half  passed  after  this 
conversation,  before  Pavel  Petrovitch  made  up 
his  mind  to  carry  out  his  intention.  When  he 
was  once  settled  in  the  country,  however,  he  did 
not  leave  it,  even  during  the  three  winters 
which  Nikolai  Petrovitch  spent  in  Petersburg 
with  his  son.  He  began  to  read,  chiefly  Eng- 
glish  ;  he  arranged  his  whole  life,  roughly 
speaking,  in  the  English  style,  rarely  saw  the 
neighbours,  and  only  went  out  to  the  election  of 
marshals,  where  he  was  generally  silent,  only 
occasionally  annoying  and  alarming  land- 
owners of  the  old  school  by  his  liberal  sallies, 
and  not  associating  with  the  representatives  of 
the  younger  generation.  Both  the  latter  and 
the  former  considered  him  'stuck  up';  and  both 
parties  respected  him  for  his  fine  aristocratic 
manners ;  for  his  reputation  for  successes  in 
love  ;  for  the  fact  that  he  was  very  well  dressed 
and  always  stayed  in  the  best  room  in  the  best 
hotel ;  for  the  fact  that  he  generally  dined  well, 
and  had  once  even  dined  with  Wellington  at 
Louis  Philippe's  table ;  for  the  fact  that  he 
always  took  everywhere  with  him  a  real  silver 

53 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

dressing-case  and  a  portable  bath ;  for  the  fact 
that  he  always  smelt  of  some  exceptionally 
'good  form  '  scent ;  for  the  fact  that  he  played 
whist  in  masterly  fashion,  and  always  lost ; 
and  lastly,  they  respected  him  also  for  his 
incorruptible  honesty.  Ladies  considered  him 
enchantingly  romantic,  but  he  did  not  cultivate 
ladies'  acquaintance.  .  .  . 

*  So  you  see,  Yevgeny,'  observed  Arkady,  as 
he  finished  his  story,  '  how  unjustly  you  judge 
of  my  uncle !  To  say  nothing  of  his  having 
more  than  once  helped  my  father  out  of 
difficulties,  given  him  all  his  money — the  pro- 
perty, perhaps  you  don't  know,  wasn't  divided — 
he 's  glad  to  help  any  one,  among  other  things 
he  always  sticks  up  for  the  peasants ;  it 's  true, 
when  he  talks  to  them  he  frowns  and  sniffs  eau 
de  cologne.'  .  .  . 

*  His  nerves,  no  doubt,'  put  in  Bazarov. 

*  Perhaps  ;  but  his  heart  is  very  good.  And 
he 's  far  from  being  stupid.  What  useful  advice 
he  has  given  me  especially  .  .  .  especially  in 
regard  to  relations  with  women.' 

*  Aha !  a  scalded  dog  fears  cold  water,  we 
know  that ! ' 

'  In  short,'  continued  Arkady,  'he  's  profoundly 
unhappy,  believe  me  ;  it 's  a  sin  to  despise  him.' 

'  And  who  does  despise  him  ? '  retorted 
Bazarov.     '  Still,  I  must  say  that  a  fellow  who 

54 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

stakes  his  whole  life  on  one  card — a  woman's 
love — and  when  that  card  fails,  turns  sour, 
and  lets  himself  go  till  he's  fit  for  nothing, 
is  not  a  man,  but  a  male.  You  say  he's 
unhappy  ;  you  ought  to  know  best ;  to  be 
sure,  he 's  not  got  rid  of  all  his  fads.  I  'm 
convinced  that  he  solemnly  imagines  himself 
a  superior  creature  because  he  reads  that 
wretched  Galignani,  and  once  a  month  saves 
a  peasant  from  a  flogging.' 

'  But  remember  his  education,  the  age  in 
which  he  grew  up/  observed  Arkady. 

*  Education  ?'  broke  in  Bazarov.  '  Every  man 
must  educate  himself,  just  as  I  've  done,  for 
instance.  ...  And  as  for  the  age,  why  should 
I  depend  on  it  ?  Let  it  rather  depend  on 
me.  No,  my  dear  fellow,  that's  all  shallow- 
ness, want  of  backbone  \  And  what  stuff  it  all 
is,  about  these  mysterious  relations  between  a 
man  and  woman  ?  We  physiologists  know 
what  these  relations  are.  You  study  the 
anatomy  of  the  eye ;  where  does  the  enig- 
matical glance  you  talk  about  come  in  there? 
That's  all  romantic,  nonsensical,  aesthetic  rot. 
We  had  much  better  go  and  look  at  the  beetle.' 

And  the  two  friends  went  off  to  Bazarov's 
room,  which  was  already  pervaded  by  a  sort  of 
medico-surgical  odour,  mingled  with  the  smell 
of  cheap  tobacco. 

55 


Vlli 

Pavel  Petrovitch  did  not  long  remain  pre- 
sent at  his  brother's  interview  with  his  bailiff,  a 
tall,  thin  man  with  a  sweet  consumptive  voice 
and  knavish  eyes,  who  to  all  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch's  remarks  answered,  *  Certainly,  sir,' 
and  tried  to  make  the  peasants  out  to 
be  thieves  and  drunkards.  The  estate  had 
only  recently  been  put  on  to  the  new  re- 
formed system,  and  the  new  mechanism 
worked,  creaking  like  an  ungreased  wheel, 
warping  and  cracking  like  home-made  furniture 
of  unseasoned  wood.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  did 
not  lose  heart,  but  often  he  sighed,  and  was 
gloomy  ;  he  felt  that  the  thing  could  not  go 
on  without  money,  and  his  money  was  almost 
all  spent.  Arkady  had  spoken  the  truth ; 
Pavel  Petrovitch  had  more  than  once  helped 
his  brother ;  more  than  once,  seeing  him 
struggling  and  cudgelling  his  brains,  at  a  loss 
which  way  to  turn,  Pavel  Petrovitch  moved 
deliberately  to  the  window,  and  with  his  hands 

56 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

thrust  into  his  pockets,  muttered  between  his 
teeth,  '  mats  je  puis  vous  donner  de  Fargentl  and 
gave  him  money  ;  but  to-day  he  had  none  him- 
self, and  he  preferred  to  go  away.  The  petty 
details  of  agricultural  management  worried 
him ;  besides,  it  constantly  struck  him  that 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  for  all  his  zeal  and  industry, 
did  not  set  about  things  in  the  right  way, 
though  he  would  not  have  been  able  to  point 
out  precisely  where  Nikolai  Petrovitch's  mis- 
take lay.  *  My  brother's  not  practical  enough,' 
he  reasoned  to  himself ;  '  they  impose  upon  him.' 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  on  the  other  hand,  had  the 
highest  opinion  of  Pavel  Petrovitch's  practical 
ability,  and  always  asked  his  advice.  *  I  'm  a 
soft,  weak  fellow,  I  've  spent  my  life  in  the 
tvilds,'  he  used  to  say  ;  *  while  you  haven't  seen 
so  much  of  the  world  for  nothing,  you  see 
through  people  ;  you  have  an  eagle  eye.'  In 
answer  to  which  Pavel  Petrovitch  only  turned 
away,  but  did  not  contradict  his  brother. 

Leaving  Nikolai  Petrovitch  in  his  study,  he 
walked  along  the  corridor,  which  separated  the 
front  part  of  the  house  from  the  back ;  when 
he  had  reached  a  low  door,  he  stopped  in 
hesitation,  then  pulling  his  moustaches,  he 
knocked  at  it. 

*  Who's  there  ?  Come  in,'  sounded  Fenitchka's 
voice. 

S7 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  It's  I,'  said  Pavel  Petrovitch,  and  he  opened 
the  door. 

Fenitchka  jumped  up  from  the  chair  on  which 
she  was  sitting  with  her  baby,  and  giving  him 
into  the  arms  of  a  girl,  who  at  once  carried 
him  out  of  the  room,  she  put  straight  her 
kerchief  hastily. 

'Pardon  me,  if  I  disturb  you,'  began  Pavel 
Petrovitch,  not  looking  at  her  -,  *  I  only  wanted 
to  ask  you  .  .  .  they  are  sending  into  the  town 
to-day,  I  think  .  .  .  please  let  them  buy  me 
some  green  tea.' 

*  Certainly,'  answered  Fenitchka  ;  '  how  much 
do  you  desire  them  to  buy  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  half  a  pound  will  be  enough,  I  imagine. 
You  have  made  a  change  here,  I  see,'  he  added, 
with  a  rapid  glance  round  him,  which  glided 
over  Fenitchka's  face  too.  '  The  curtains  here/ 
he  explained,  seeing  she  did  not  understand 
him, 

*  Oh,  yes,  the  curtains ;  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
was  so  good  as  to  make  me  a  present  of  them ; 
but  they  have  been  put  up  a  long  while  now.' 

*  Yes,  and  it 's  a  long  while  since  I  have  been 
to  see  you.     Now  it  is  very  nice  here.' 

*  Thanks  to  Nikolai  Petrovitch's  kindness/ 
murmured  Fenitchka. 

*  You  are  more  comfortable  here  than  in  the 
little  lodge  you  used  to  have  ? '  inquired  Pavel 

58 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

Petrovitch  urbanely,  but  without  the  slightest 
smile. 

'  Certainly,  it 's  more  comfortable.' 

*  Who  has  been  put  in  your  place  now  ?* 

*  The  laundry-maids  are  there  now.' 
•Ah!' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  was  silent.  '  Now  he  is 
going,'  thought  Fenitchka  ;  but  he  did  not  go, 
and  she  stood  before  him  motionless. 

'What  did  you  send  your   little  one  aw^jj^ 
for  ? '    said  Pavel   Petrovitch   at  last.     *  I   love 
children  ;  let  me  see  him.' 

Fenitchka  blushed  all  over  with  confusion  and 
delight.  She  was  afraid  of  Pavel  Petrovitch ; 
he  had  scarcely  ever  spoken  to  her. 

*  Dunyasha,'  she  called ;  *  will  you  bring 
Mitya,  please.'  (Fenitchka  did  not  treat  any 
one  in  the  house  familiarly.)  *  But  wait  a 
minute  •  he  must  have  a  frock  on,'  Fenitchka 
was  going  towards  the  door. 

*  That  doesn't  matter,'  remarked  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch. 

*  I  will  be  back  directly,'  answered  Fenitchka, 
and  she  went  out  quickly. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  was  left  alone,  and  he  looked 
round  this  time  with  special  attention.  The 
small  low-pitched  room  in  which  he  found 
himself  was  very  clean  and  snug.  It  smelt 
of  the  freshly  painted  floor  and  of  camomile. 

59 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Along  the  walls  stood  chairs  with  lyre-shaped 
backs,  bought  by  the  late  general  on  his 
campaign  in  Poland ;  in  one  corner  was  a 
little  bedstead  under  a  muslin  canopy  beside 
an  iron-clamped  chest  with  a  convex  lid.  In 
the  opposite  corner  a  little  lamp  was  burning 
before  a  big  dark  picture  of  St.  Nikolai  the 
wonder-worker  ;  a  tiny  porcelain  egg  hung  by 
a  red  ribbon  from  the  protruding  gold  halo  down 
to  the  saint's  breast ;  by  the  windows  greenish 
glass  jars  of  last  year's  jam  carefully  tied  down 
could  be  seen  ;  on  their  paper  covers  Fenitchka 
herself  had  written  in  big  letters  '  Gooseberry ' ; 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  particularly  fond  of  that 
preserve.  On  a  long  cord  from  the  ceiling  a 
cage  hung  with  a  short-tailed  siskin  in  it ;  he 
was  constantly  chirping  and  hopping  about,  the 
cage  was  constantly  shaking  and  swinging, 
while  hempseeds  fell  with  a  light  tap  on  to  the 
floor.  On  the  wall  just  above  a  small  chest 
of  drawers  hung  some  rather  bad  photographs 
of  Nikolai  Petrovitch  in  various  attitudes,  taken 
by  an  itinerant  photographer ;  there  too  hung 
a  photograph  of  Fenitchka  herself,  which  was 
an  absolute  failure  ;  it  was  an  eyeless  face  wear- 
ing a  forced  smile,  in  a  dingy  frame,  nothing 
more  could  be  made  out ;  while  above  Fenitchka, 
General  Yermolov,  in  a  Circassian  cloak,  scowled 

menacingly  upon  the  Caucasian  mountains  in 

60 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

the  distance,  from  beneath  a  little  silk  shoe  for 
pins  which  fell  right  on  to  his  brows. 

Five  minutes  passed;  bustling  and  whisper- 
ing could  be  heard  in  the  next  room.  Pavel 
Petrovitch  took  up  from  the  chest  of  drawers 
a  greasy  book,  an  odd  volume  of  Masalsky's 
Musketeer^  and  turned  over  a  few  pages.  .  .  . 
The  door  opened,  and  Fenitchka  came  in  with 
Mitya  in  her  arms.  She  had  put  on  him  a 
little  red  smock  with  embroidery  on  the  collar,, 
had  combed  his  hair  and  washed  his  face ;  he 
was  breathing  heavily,  his  whole  body  working, 
and  his  little  hands  waving  in  the  air,  as  is  the 
way  with  all  healthy  babies ;  but  his  smart 
smock  obviously  impressed  him,  an  expres- 
sion of  delight  was  reflected  in  every  part  of 
his  little  fat  person.  Fenitchka  had  put  her 
own  hair  too  in  order,  and  had  arranged  her 
kerchief;  but  she  might  well  have  remained 
as  she  was.  And  really  is  there  anything  in 
the  world  more  captivating  than  a  beautiful 
young  mother  with  a  healthy  baby  in  her  arms  ? 

*  What  a  chubby  fellow! '  said  Pavel  Petrovitch 
graciousV,  and  he  tickled  Mitya's  little  double 
chin  with  the  tapering  nail  of  his  forefinger.  The 
baby  stared  at  the  siskin,  and  chuckled. 

'  That 's  uncle,'  said  Fenitchka,  bending  her 

face  down  to  him  and   slightly  rocking  him, 

while  Dunyasha  quietly  set  in  the  window  & 

6i 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

smouldering    perfumed   stick,   putting   a   half- 
penny under  it. 

*  How  many  months  old  is  he  ? '  asked  Pavel 
Petrovitch. 

'  Six  months ;  it  will  soon  be  seven,  on  the 
eleventh/ 

*  Isn't  it  eight,  Fedosya  Nikolaevna  ? '  put  in 
Dunyasha,  with  some  timidity. 

'  No,  seven  ;  what  an  idea  ! '  The  baby 
chuckled  again,  stared  at  the  chest,  and  sud- 
denly caught  hold  of  his  mother's  nose  and 
mouth  with  all  his  five  little  fingers.  *  Saucy 
mite,'  said  Fenitchka,  not  drawing  her  face  away. 

*  He 's  like  my  brother,'  observed  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch. 

*  Who  else  should  he  be  like  ? '  thought 
Fenitchka. 

'  Yes,'  continued  Pavel  Petrovitch,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself;  *  there's  an  unmistakable 
likeness.'  He  looked  attentively,  almost  mourn- 
fully, at  Fenitchka. 

'  That 's  uncle,'  she  repeated,  in  a  whisper  this 
time. 

*  Ah  !  Pavel !  so  you  're  here  ! '  was  heard 
suddenly  the  voice  of  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 

Pavel    Petrovitch    turned    hurriedly    round, 

frowning  ;  but  his  brother  looked  at  him  with 

such  delight,  such  gratitude,  that  he  could  not 

help  responding  to  his  smile. 

62 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  You  Ve  a  splendid  little  cherub/  he  said,  and 
looking  at  his  watch.  *  I  came  in  here  to  speak 
about  some  tea.' 

And,  assuming  an  expression  of  indifference, 
Pavel  Petrovitch  at  once  went  out  of  the  room. 

'  Did  he  come  of  himself? '  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
asked  Fenitchka. 

*  Yes  ;  he  knocked  and  came  in.* 

*  Well,  and  has  Arkasha  been  in  to  see  you 
again  ? ' 

'  No.     Hadn't  I  better  move  into  the  lodge, 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  ? ' 
•Why  so?' 

*  I  wonder  whether  it  wouldn't  be  best  just 
for  the  first.' 

'  N  . .  no,'  Nikolai  Petrovitch  brought  out  hesi- 
tatingly, rubbing  his  forehead.  *  We  ought  to 
have  done  it  before.  ...  How  are  you,  fatty  ? ' 
he  said,  suddenly  brightening,  and  going  up  to 
the  baby,  he  kissed  him  on  the  cheek  ;  then  he 
bent  a  little  and  pressed  his  lips  to  Fenitchka's 
hand,  which  lay  white  as  milk  upon  Mitya's  little 
red  smock. 

*  Nikolai  Petrovitch  !  what  are  you  doing  ? ' 
she  whispered,  dropping  her  eyes,  then  slowly 
raised  them.  Very  charming  was  the  expres- 
sion of  her  eyes  when  she  peeped,  as  it  were, 
from  under  her  lids,  and  smiled  tenderly  and  a 

little  foolishly. 

63 


/ATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  made  Fenitchka's 
acquaintance  in  the  following  manner.  He  had 
once  happened  three  years  before  to  stay  a 
night  at  an  inn  in  a  remote  district  town.  He 
was  agreeably  struck  by  the  cleanness  of  the 
room  assigned  to  him,  the  freshness  of  the  bed- 
linen.  Surely  the  woman  of  the  house  must  be 
a  German  ?  was  the  idea  that  occurred  to  him  ; 
but  she  proved  to  be  a  Russian,  a  woman  ot 
about  fifty,  neatly  dressed,  of  a  good-looking, 
sensible  countenance  and  discreet  speech.  He 
entered  into  conversation  with  her  at  tea  ;  he 
liked  her  very  much.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  at 
that  time  only  just  moved  into  his  new  home, 
and  not  wishing  to  keep  serfs  in  the  house,  he 
was  on  the  look-out  for  wage-servants  ;  the 
woman  of  the  inn  on  her  side  complained  of 
the  small  number  of  visitors  to  the  town,  and 
the  hard  times  ;  he  proposed  to  her  to  come 
into  his  house  in  the  capacity  of  housekeeper  ; 
she  consented.  Her  husband  had  long  been 
dead,  leaving  her  an  only  daughter,  Fenitchka. 
Within  a  fortnight  Arina  Savishna  (that  was 
the  new  housekeeper's  name)  arrived  with  her 
daughter  at  Maryino  and  installed  herself  in  the 
little  lodge.  Nikolai  Petrovitch's  choice  proved 
a  successful  one.  Arina  brought  order  into  the 
household.     As  for  Fenitchka,  who  was  at  that 

time  seventeen,  no  one  sooke  of  her,  and  scarcely 

64 


1 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

any  one  saw  her ;  she  lived  quietly  and  sedately, 
and  only  on  Sundays  Nikolai  Petrovitch  noticed 
in  the  church  somewhere  in  a  side  place  the 
delicate  profile  of  her  white  face.  More  than  a 
year  passed  thus. 

One  morning,  Arina  came  into  his  study,  and 
bowing  low  as  usual,  she  asked  him  if  he  could 
do  anything  for  her  daughter,  who  had  got  a 
spark  from  the  stove  in  her  eye.  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch, like  all  stay-at-home  people,  had  studied 
doctoring  and  even  compiled  a  homoeopathic 
guide.  He  at  once  told  Arina  to  bring  the 
patient  to  him.  Fenitchka  was  much  frightened 
when  she  heard  the  master  had  sent  for  her ; 
however,  she  followed  her  mother.  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  led  her  to  the  window  and  took  her 
head  in  his  two  hands.  After  thoroughly  exa- 
mining her  red  and  swollen  eye,  he  prescribed 
a  fomentation,  which  he  made  up  himself  at 
once,  and  tearing  his  handkerchief  in  pieces,  he 
showed  her  how  it  ought  to  be  applied.  Fenitchka 
listened  to  all  he  had  to  say,  and  then  was  going. 
*  Kiss  the  master's  hand,  silly  girl,'  said  Arina. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  did  not  give  her  his  hand, 
and  in  confusion  himself  kissed  her  bent  head 
on  the  parting  of  her  hair.  Fenitchka's  eye  was 
soon  well  again,  but  the  impression  she  had 
made  on  Nikolai  Petrovitch  did  not  pass  away 

so  quickly.     He  was  for  ever  haunted  by  that 

65  E 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

pure,  delicate,  timidly  raised  face  ;  he  felt  on  the 
palms  of  his  hands  that  soft  hair,  and  saw  those 
innocent,  slightly  parted  lips,  through  which 
pearly  teeth  gleamed  with  moist  brilliance  in 
the  sunshine.  He  began  to  watch  her  with 
great  attention  in  church,  and  tried  to  get  into 
conversation  with  her.  At  first  she  was  shy  of 
him,  and  one  day  meeting  him  at  the  approach 
of  evening  in  a  narrow  footpath  through  a  field 
of  rye,  she  ran  into  the  tall  thick  rye,  overgrown 
with  cornflowers  and  wormwood,  so  as  not  to 
meet  him  face  to  face.  He  caught  sight  of  her 
little  head  through  a  golden  network  of  ears 
of  rye,  from  which  she  was  peeping  out  like 
a  little  animal,  and  called  affectionately  to 
her — 

'  Good-evening,  Fenitchka !  I  don't  bite.' 

*  Good-evening,'  she  whispered,  not  coming 
out  of  her  ambush. 

By  degrees  she  began  to  be  more  at  home 
with  him,  but  was  still  shy  in  his  presence,  when 
suddenly  her  mother,  Arina,  died  of  cholera. 
What  was  to  become  of  Fenitchka  ?  She  in- 
herited from  her  mother  a  love  for  order,  regu- 
larity, and  respectability  ;  but  she  was  so  young, 
so  alone.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  himself  so 
good  and  considerate. ...  It 's  needless  to  relate 
the  rest .  . . 

*  So  my  brother  came  in  to  see  you  ? '  Nikolai 

66 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Petrovitch  questioned  her.     '  He  knocked  and 
came  in  ? ' 

•  Yes.' 

*  Well,  that 's  a  good  thing.  Let  me  give 
Mitya  a  swing.' 

And  Nikolai  Petrovitch  began  tossing  him 
almost  up  to  the  ceiling,  to  the  huge  delight  of 
the  baby,  and  to  the  considerable  uneasiness  of 
the  mother,  who  every  time  he  flew  up  stretched 
her  arms  up  towards  his  little  bare  legs. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  went  back  to  his  artistic 
study,  with  its  walls  covered  with  handsome 
bluish-grey  hangings,  with  weapons  hanging 
upon  a  variegated  Persian  rug  nailed  to  the 
wall ;  with  walnut  furniture,  upholstered  in  dark 
green  velveteen,  with  a  renaissance  bookcase  of 
old  black  oak,  with  bronze  statuettes  on  the 
magnificent  writing-table,  with  an  open  hearth. 
He  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  and  remained  without  moving, 
looking  with  a  face  almost  of  despair  at  the 
ceiling.  Whether  he  wanted  to  hide  from  the 
very  walls  that  which  was  reflected  in  his  face, 
or  for  some  other  reason,  he  got  up,  drew  the 
heavy  window  curtains,  and  again  threw  him- 
self on  the  sofa. 


67 


IX 


On  the  same  day  Bazarov  made  acquaintance 
with  Fenitchka.  He  was  walking  with  Arkady 
in  the  garden,  and  explaining  to  him  why  some 
of  the  trees,  especially  the  oaks,  had  not  done 
well. 

*You  ought  to  have  planted  silver  poplars 
here  by  preference,  and  spruce  firs,  and 
perhaps  limes,  giving  them  some  loam.  The 
arbour  there  has  done  well,'  he  added,  *  be- 
cause it 's  acacia  and  lilac  ;  they  're  accom- 
modating good  fellows,  those  trees,  they  don't 
want  much  care.  But  there's  some  one  in 
here.' 

In  the  arbour  was  sitting  Fenitchka,  with 
Dunyasha  and  Mitya.  Bazarov  stood  still, 
while  Arkady  nodded  to  Fenitchka  like  an  old 
friend. 

*  Who 's  that  ?  *  Bazarov  asked  him  directly 
they  had  passed  by.     '  What  a  pretty  girl ! ' 

*  Whom  are  you  speaking  of? ' 

'  You  know  ;  only  one  of  them  was  pretty.' 

68 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Arkady,  not  without  embarrassment,  ex- 
plained to  him  briefly  who  Fenitchka  was. 

'  Aha  ! '  commented  Bazarov  ;  '  your  father's 
got  good  taste,  one  can  see.  I  like  him,  your 
father,  ay,  ay  !  He 's  a  jolly  fellow.  We  must 
make  friends  though,'  he  added,  and  turned 
back  towards  the  arbour. 

'  Yevgeny  ! '  Arkady  cried  after  him  in  dis- 
may ;  *  mind  what  you  are  about,  for  mercy's 
sake.' 

'  Don't  worry  yourself,'  said  Bazarov  ;  *  I 
know  how  to  behave  myself — I  'm  not  a  booby.' 

Going  up  to  Fenitchka,  he  took  off  his  cap. 

'  Allow  me  to  introduce  myself,'  he  began, 
with  a  polite  bow.  '  I  'm  a  harmless  person, 
and  a  friend  of  Arkady  Nikolaevitch's.' 

Fenitchka  got  up  from  the  garden  seat  and 
looked  at  him  without  speaking. 

*  What  a  splendid  baby  !'  continued  Bazarov  ; 
'  don't  be  uneasy,  my  praises  have  never  brought 
ill-luck  yet.  Why  is  it  his  cheeks  are  so  flushed? 
Is  he  cutting  his  teeth  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  said  Fenitchka  ;  '  he  has  cut  four  teeth 
already,  and  now  the  gums  are  swollen  again.' 

'  Show  me,  and  don't  be  afraid,  I'm  a  doctor.' 

Bazarov  took  the  baby  up  in  his  arms,  and 

to  the  great  astonishment  both  of  Fenitchka 

and  Dunyasha  the  child  made  no  resistance, 

and  was  not  frightened. 

69 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  I  see,  I  see.  ...  It 's  nothing,  everything's 
as  it  should  be ;  he  will  have  a  good  set  of  teeth. 
If  anything  goes  wrong,  tell  me.  And  are  you 
quite  well  yourself? ' 

'  Quite,  thank  God.' 

'  Thank  God,  indeed — that 's  the  great  thing. 
And  you  ?  '  he  added,  turning  to  Dunyasha. 

Dunyasha,  a  girl  very  prim  in  the  master's 
house,  and  a  romp  outside  the  gates,  only 
giggled  in  answer. 

'  Well,  that 's  all  right  Here 's  your  gallant 
fellow.' 

Fenitchka  received  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

*  How  good  he  was  with  you!'  she  commented 
jn  an  undertone. 

*  Children  are  always  good  with  me,'  answered 
Bazarov;  '  I  have  a  way  with  them.' 

'  Children  know  who  loves  them,'  remarked 
Dunyasha. 

'  Yes,  they  certainly  do,'  Fenitchka  said. 
*Why,  Mitya  will  not  go  to  some  people  for 
anything.' 

*  Will  he  come  to  me  ? '  asked  Arkady,  who, 
after  standing  in  the  distance  for  some  time, 
had  gone  up  to  the  arbour. 

He  tried  to  entice  Mitya  to  come  to  him,  but 
Mitya  threw  his  head  back  and  screamed,  to 
Fenitchka's  great  confusion. 

*  Another  day,  when   he  's  had  time  to  get 

70 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

used  to  me/  said  Arkady  indulgently,  and  the 
two  friends  walked  away. 

*  What 's  her  name  ? '  asked  Bazarov. 

*  Fenitchka  .  .  .  Fedosya/  answered  Arkady. 

*  And  her  father's  name  ?  One  must  know 
that  too.' 

*  Nikolaevna.' 

*  Bene.  What  I  like  in  her  is  that  she 's  not 
too  embarrassed.  Some  people,  I  suppose, 
would  think  ill  of  her  for  it.  What  nonsense  ! 
What  is  there  to  embarrass  her  ?  She 's  a 
mother — she  's  all  right.' 

*  She's  all  right,'  observed  Arkady, — 'but  my 
father.' 

*  And  he  's  right  too,'  put  in  Bazarov. 
«  Well,  no,  I  don't  think  so.' 

*I  suppose  an  extra  heir's  not  to  your  liking?* 

*  I  wonder  you  're  not  ashamed  to  attribute 
such  ideas  to  me  ! '  retorted  Arkady  hotly  ;  *  I 
don't  consider  my  father  wrong  from  that  point 
of  view  ;  I  think  he  ought  to  marry  her.' 

*  Hoity-toity  ! '  responded  Bazarov  tranquilly. 
*  What  magnanimous  fellows  we  are !  You 
still  attach  significance  to  marriage ;  I  did  not 
expect  that  of  you.' 

The  friends  walked  a  few  paces  in  silence. 

*  I  have  looked  at  all  your  father's  establish- 
ment,' Bazarov  began  again.  *  The  cattle  are 
inferior,    the    horses    are   broken    down ;    the 

71 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

buildings  aren't  up  to  much,  and  the  workmen 
look  confirmed  loafers;  while  the  superintendent 
is  either  a  fool,  or  a  knave,  I  haven't  quite  found 
out  which  yet.' 

'You  are  rather  hard  on  everything  to-day, 
Vevgeny  Vassilyevitch.' 

*  And  the  dear  good  peasants  are  taking  your 
father  in  to  a  dead  certainty.  You  know  the 
Russian  proverb,  "  The  Russian  peasant  will 
cheat  God  Himself." ' 

'  I  begin  to  agree  with  my  uncle,'  remarked 
Arkady ;  *  you  certainly  have  a  poor  opinion  of 
Russians.' 

'  As  though  that  mattered  !  The  only  good 
point  in  a  Russian  is  his  having  the  lowest 
possible  opinion  of  himself.  What  does  matter 
is  that  two  and  two  make  four,  and  the  rest  is 
all  foolery.' 

'And  is  nature  foolery?'  said  Arkady,  looking 
pensively  at  the  bright-coloured  fields  in  the 
distance,  in  the  beautiful  soft  light  of  the  sun, 
which  was  not  yet  high  up  in  the  sky. 

*  Nature,  too,  is   foolery    in   the    sense    you 
^  understand  it     Nature's   not  a  temple,  but  a 

workshop,  and  man's  the  workman  in  it' 

At  that  instant,  the  long  drawn  notes  of  a 

.  violoncello  floated  out  to  them  from  the  house. 

Some  one  was  playing  Schubert's  Expectation 

with  much  feeling,  though  with  an   untrained 

72 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

hand,  and  the  melody  flowed  with  honey  sweet- 
ness through  the  air. 

'  What 's  that  ? '  cried  Bazarov  in  amazement. 

*It's  my  father.' 

'  Your  father  plays  the  violoncello  ?  * 

•  Yes/ 

'  And  how  old  is  your  father  ?  * 

'  Forty- four.' 

Bazarov  suddenly  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

'  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  * 

'  Upon  my  word,  a  man  of  forty-four,  a 
paterfamilias  in  this  out-of-the-way  district, 
playing  on  the  violoncello  ! ' 

Bazarov  went  on  laughing  ;  but  much  as  he 
revered  his  master,  this  time  Arkady  did  not 
even  smile. 


73 


About  a  fortnight  passed  by.  Life  at  Maryino 
went  on  its  accustomed  course,  while  AHcady 
was  lazy  and  enjoyed  himself,  and  Bazarov 
worked.  Every  one  in  the  house  had  grown 
used  to  him,  to  his  careless  manners,  and  his 
curt  and  abrupt  speeches.  Fenitchka,  in  par- 
ticular, was  so  far  at  home  with  him  that  one 
night  she  sent  to  wake  him  up ;  Mitya  had  had 
convulsions  ;  and  he  had  gone,  and,  half  joking, 
half-yawning  as  usual,  he  stayed  two  hours  with 
her  and  relieved  the  child.  On  the  other  hand 
Pavel  Petrovitch  had  grown  to  detest  Bazarov 
with  all  the  strength  of  his  soul ;  he  regarded 
him  as  stuck-up,  impudent,  cynical,  and 
vulgar;  he  suspected  that  Bazarov  had  no 
respect  for  him,  that  he  had  all  but  a  contempt 
for  him — him,  Pavel  Kirsanov  !  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch was  rather  afraid  of  the  young  '  nihilist,' 
and  was  doubtful  whether  his  influence  over 
Arkady  was  for  the  good ;  but  he  was  glad  to 
listen  to  him,  and  was  glad  to  be  present  at  his 

74 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

scientific  and  chemical  experiments.  Bazarov 
had  brought  with  him  a  microscope,  and  busied 
himself  for  hours  together  with  it.  The  servants, 
too,  took  to  him,  though  he  made  fun  of  them  ; 
they  felt,  all  the  same,  that  he  was  one  of  them- 
selves, not  a  master.  Dunyasha  was  always 
ready  to  giggle  with  him,  and  used  to  cast 
significant  and  stealthy  glances  at  him  when 
she  skipped  by  like  a  rabbit ;  Piotr,  a  man  vain 
and  stupid  to  the  last  degree,  for  ever  wearing 
an  affected  frown  on  his  brow,  a  man  whose 
whole  merit  consisted  in  the  fact  that  he  looked 
civil,  could  spell  out  a  page  of  reading,  and 
was  diligent  in  brushing  his  coat — even  he 
smirked  and  brightened  up  directly  Bazarov 
paid  him  any  attention ;  the  boys  on  the  farm 
simply  ran  after  the  *  doctor '  like  puppies. 
The  old  man  Prokofitch  was  the  only  one  who 
did  not  like  him  j  he  handed  him  the  dishes  at 
table  with  a  surly  face,  called  him  a  *  butcher ' 
and  'an  upstart,'  and  declared  that  with  his  great 
whiskers  he  looked  like  a  pig  in  a  stye.  Proko- 
fitch in  his  own  way  was  quite  as  much  of  an 
aristocrat  as  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

The  best  days  of  the  year  had  come — the 
first  days  of  June.  The  weather  kept  splendidly 
fine ;  in  the  distance,  it  is  true,  the  cholera  was 
threatening,  but  the  inhabitants  of  that  province 
had  had  time  to  get  used  to  its  visits.    Bazarov 

75 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

lased  to  get  up  very  early  and  go  out  for  two  or 
three  miles,  not  for  a  walk — he  couldn't  bear 
walking  without  an  object — but  to  collect  speci- 
mens of  plants  and  insects.  Sometimes  he  took 
Arkady  with  him.  On  the  way  home  an  argu- 
ment usually  sprang  up,  and  Arkady  was  usually 
vanquished  in  it,  though  he  said  more  than  his 
companion. 

One  day  they  had  lingered  rather  late; 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  went  to  meet  them  in  the 
garden,  and  as  he  reached  the  arbour  he  sud- 
denly heard  the  quick  steps  and  voices  of  the 
two  young  men.  They  were  walking  on  the 
other  side  of  the  arbour,  and  could  not  see 
him. 

*  You  don't  know  my  father  well  enough,' 
said  Arkady. 

'Your  father's  a  nice  chap,'  said  Bazarov, 
^  but  he 's  behind  the  times  ;  his  day  is  done.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  listened  intently.  .  ,  . 
Arkady  made  no  answer. 

The  man  whose  day  was  done  remained 
two  minutes  motionless,  and  stole  slowly 
home. 

*  The  day  before  yesterday  I  saw  him  reading 

Pushkin,'  Bazarov  was  continuing  meanwhile. 

*  Explain  to  him,  please,  that  that 's  no  earthly 

use.     He 's  not  a  boy,  you  know ;  it 's  time  to 

throw  up  that  rubbish.    And  what  an  idea  to 

76 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

be  a  romantic  at  this  time  of  day !     Give  him 
something  sensible  to  read.' 

'What  ought  I  to  give  him?'  asked 
Arkady. 

*  Oh,  I  think  Biichner's  Stoff  und  Kraft  to 
begin  with.' 

*I  think  so  too/  observed  Arkady  approv- 
ingly, *  Stoff  und  Kraft  is  written  in  popular 
language.  .  .  .' 

*So  it  seems,'  Nikolai  Petrovitch  said  the 
same  day  after  dinner  to  his  brother,  as  he  sat 
in  his  study,  *  you  and  I  are  behind  the  times, 
our  day's  over.  Well,  well.  Perhaps  Bazarov 
is  right ;  but  one  thing  I  confess,  makes  me 
feel  sore ;  I  did  so  hope,  precisely  now,  to  get 
on  to  such  close  intimate  terms  with  Arkady,  \ 
and  it  turns  out  I  'm  left  behind,  and  he  has 
gone  forward,  and  we  can't  understand  one 
another.' 

*  How  has  he  gone  forward  ?  And  in  what 
way  is  he  so  superior  to  us  already  ? '  cried  Pavel 
Petrovitch  impatiently.  *  It 's  that  high  and 
mighty  gentleman,  that  nihilist,  who's  knocked 
all  that  into  his  head.  I  hate  that  doctor  fellow ; 
in  my  opinion,  he  's  simply  a  quack  ;  I  'm  con- 
vinced, for  all  his  tadpoles,  he 's  not  got  very 
far  even  in  medicine.' 

*  No,  brother,  you  mustn't  say  that;  Bazarov 
is  clever,  and  knows  his  subject' 

77 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

•And  his  conceit 's  something  revolting,'  Pavel 
Petrovitch  broke  in  again. 

*  Yes,'  observed  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  *  he  is 
conceited  But  there 's  no  doing  without  that, 
it  seems  ;  only  that 's  what  I  did  not  take  into 
account  I  thought  I  was  doing  everything  to 
keep  up  with  the  times  ;  I  have  started  a  model 
farm  ;  I  have  done  well  by  the  peasants,  so  that 
I  am  positively  called  a  "  Red  Radical  "  all  over 
the  province  ;  I  read,  I  study,  I  try  in  every 
way  to  keep  abreast  with  the  requirements  of 
the  day — and  they  say  my  day 's  over.  And, 
brother,  I  begin  to  think  that  it  is.' 

'  Why  so  ? ' 

'  I  '11  tell  you  why.  This  morning  I  was 
sitting  reading  Pushkin.  ...  I  remember,  it 
happened  to  be  The  Gipsies  .  .  .  all  of  a  sudden 
Arkady  came  up  to  me,  and,  without  speaking, 
with  such  a  kindly  compassion  on  his  face,  as 
gently  as  if  I  were  a  baby,  took  the  book  away 
from  me,  and  laid  another  before  me — a  German 
book  .  .  .  smiled,  and  went  away,  carrying 
Pushkin  off  with  him.' 

*  Upon  my  word  !  What  book  did  he  give 
you?' 

*  This  one  here.* 

And  Nikolai  Petrovitch  pulled  the  famous 
treatise  of  Biichner,  in  the  ninth  edition,  out  of 
his  coat-tail  pocket 

78 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

Pavel  Petrovitch  turned  it  over  in  his  hands. 
*  Hm  ! '  he  growled.  '  Arkady  Nikolaevitch  is 
taking  your  education  in  hand.  Well,  did  you 
try  reading  it  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  tried  it' 

'  Well,  what  did  you  think  of  it  ?  * 

*  Either  I  'm  stupid,  or  its  all — nonsense.  I 
must  be  stupid,  I  suppose.' 

*  Haven't  you  forgotten  your  German  ? ' 
queried  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

*  Oh,  I  understand  the  German.' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  again  turned  the  book  ovei 
in  his  hands,  and  glanced  from  under  his  brows 
at  his  brother.     Both  were  silent 

*  Oh,  by  the  way,'  began  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
obviously  wishing  to  change  the  subject,  *  I  've 
got  a  letter  from  Kolyazin.' 

'  Matvy  Ilyitch  ?  ' 

*  Yes.      He  has  come  to to  inspect  the 

province.  He 's  quite  a  bigwig  now ;  and 
writes  to  me  that,  as  a  relation,  he  should  like 
to  see  us  again,  and  invites  you  and  me  and 
Arkady  to  the  town.' 

*  Are  you  going  ? '  asked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

*  No  ;  are  you  ? ' 

*  No,  I  shan't  go  either.  Much  object  there 
would  be  in  dragging  oneself  over  forty  miles 
on  a  wild-goose  chase.  Mathieu  wants  to  show 
himself  in  all  his  glory.     Damn  him  !   he  will 

79 


\ 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

have  the  whole  province  doing  him  homage  ;  he 
can  get  on  without  the  likes  of  us.  A  grand 
dignity,  indeed,  a  privy  councillor !  If  I  had 
stayed  in  the  service,  if  I  had  drudged  on  in 
official  harness,  I  should  have  been  a  general- 
adjutant  by  now.  Besides,  you  and  I  are  behind 
the  times,  you  know.' 

'  Yes,  brother  ;  it 's  time,  it  seems,  to  order  a 
coffin  and  cross  one's  arms  on  one's  breast,' 
remarked  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  with  a  sigh. 

*  Well,  I  'm  not  going  to  give  in  quite  so  soon,* 
muttered  his  brother.  *  I  've  got  a  tussle  with 
that  doctor  fellow  before  me,  I  feel  sure  of 
that' 

A  tussle  came  off  that  same  day  at  evening 
tea.  Pavel  Petrovitch  came  into  the  drawing- 
room,  all  ready  for  the  fray,  irritable  and 
determined.  He  was  only  waiting  for  an 
excuse  to  fall  upon  the  enemy  ;  but  for  a  long 
while  an  excuse  did  not  present  itself.  As  a 
rule,  Bazarov  said  little  in  the  presence  of  the 
'  old  Kirsanovs '  (that  was  how  he  spoke  of  the 
brothers),  and  that  evening  he  felt  out  of 
humour,  and  drank  off  cup  after  cup  of  tea 
without  a  word.  Pavel  Petrovitch  was  all 
aflame  with  impatience ;  his  wishes  were  ful- 
filled at  last. 

The  conversation  turned  on  one  of  the  neigh- 
bouring    landowners.       *  Rotten    aristocratic 

80 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

snob,'  observed  Bazarov  indifferently.     He  had 
met  him  in  Petersburg. 

*  Allow  me  to  ask  you,'  began  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch,  and  his  lips  were  trembling, 'according 
to  your  ideas,  have  the  words  "  rotten "  and 
"  aristocrat "  the  same  meaning  ? ' 

*  I  said  "  aristocratic  snob," '  replied  Bazarov, 
lazily  swallowing  a  sip  of  tea. 

'  Precisely  so  ;  but  I  imagine  you  have  the 
same  opinion  of  aristocrats  as  of  aristocratic 
snobs.  I  think  it  my  duty  to  inform  you  that  I 
do  not  share  that  opinion.  I  venture  to  assert 
that  every  one  knows  me  for  a  man  of  liberal 
ideas  and  devoted  to  progress  ;  but,  exactly  for 
that  reason,  I  respect  aristocrats — real  aristo- 
crats. Kindly  remember,  sir'  (at  these  words 
Bazarov  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Pavel 
Petrovitch),  *  kindly  remember,  sir,'  he  repeated, 
with  acrimony — '  the  English  aristocracy.  They 
do  not  abate  one  iota  of  their  rights,  and  for 
that  reason  they  respect  the  rights  of  others  ; 
they  demand  the  performance  of  what  is  due  to 
them,  and  for  that  reason  they  perform  their 
own  duties.  The  aristocracy  has  given  freedom 
to  England,  and  maintains  it  for  her.' 

*  We  've  heard  that  story  a  good  many  times,' 
replied  Bazarov ;  '  but  what  are  you  trying  to 
prov  ^  by  that  ? ' 

'  I   am  tryin'  to   prove   by  that,  sir '  (when 

8l  F 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Pavel  Petrovitch  was  angry  he  intentionally 
clipped  his  words  in  this  way,  though,  of  course, 
he  knew  very  well  that  such  forms  are  not 
strictly  grammatical.  In  this  fashionable  whim 
could  be  discerned  a  survival  of  the  habits  of 
the  times  of  Alexander.  The  exquisites  of  those 
days,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  they  spoke 
their  own  language,  made  use  of  such  slipshod 
forms  ;  as  much  as  to  say,  '  We,  of  course,  are 
born  Russians,  at  the  same  time  we  are  great 
swells,  who  are  at  liberty  to  neglect  the  rules  of 
y  scholars ')  J  *  I  ^^  tryin'  to  prove  by  that,  sir,  that 
without  the  sense  of  personal  dignity,  without 
self-respect — and  these  two  sentiments  are  well 
developed  in  the  aristocrat — there  is  no  secure 
foundation  for  the  social  .  .  .  bien  public  .  .  . 
the  social  fabric.  Personal  character,  sir — that 
■\  is  the  chief  thing  ;  a  man's  personal  character 
must  be  firm  as  a  rock,  since  everything  is  built 
on  it.  I  am  very  well  aware,  for  instance,  that 
you  are  pleased  to  consider  my  habits,  my 
dress,  my  refinements,  in  fact,  ridiculous ;  but 
all  that  proceeds  from  a  sense  of  self-respect, 
from  a  sense  of  duty — yes,  indeed,  of  duty.  I 
live  in  the  country,  in  the  wilds,  but  I  will  not 
lower  myself  I  respect  the  dignity  of  man  in 
myself 

*  Let   me   ask   you,  Pavel    Petrovitch,'  com- 
mented   Bazarov ;   *  you   respect  yourself,  and 

82 


I 


\ 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

sit  with  your  hands  folded  ;  what  sort  of  benefit  | 
does  that  do  to  the  Men  public!  If  you  didn't' 
respect  yourself,  you'd  do  just  the  same.' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  turned  white.  *  That 's  a 
different  question.  Its  absolutely  unnecessary 
for  me  to  explain  to  you  now  why  I  sit  with 
folded  hands,  as  you  are  pleased  to  express 
yourself  I  wish  only  to  tell  you  that  aristo- 
cracy is  a  principle,  and  in  our  days  none  but 
\  immoral  or  silly  people  can  live  without 
principles.  I  said  that  to  Arkady  the  day  after 
he  came  home,  and  I  repeat  it  now.  Isn't  it 
so,  Nikolai  ? ' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  nodded  his  head.    *Aristo-\ 
cracy,  Liberalism,  progress,  principles,'  Bazarov/ 
was  saying  meanwhile  ;  *  if  you  think  of  it,  what 
a  lot  of  foreign  .  .  .  and  useless  words  !     To  a 
Russian  they're  good  for  nothing.' 

*  What  is  good  for  something  according  to 
you  ?  If  we  listen  to  you,  we  shall  find  our- 
selves outside  humanity,  outside  its  laws.  Come 
— the  logic  of  history  demands  .  .  .' 

*  But  what 's  that  logic  to  us  ?  We  can  get 
on  without  that  too.' 

*  How  do  you  mean  ? ' 

*  Why,  this.  You  don't  need  logic,  I  hope,  to 
put  a  bit  of  bread  in  your  mouth  when  you're 
hungry.  What 's  the  object  of  these  abstractions 
to  us  ? ' 

«f3 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Pavel  Petrovitch  raised  his  hands  in  horror. 

'  I  don't  understand  you,  after  that  You 
insult  the  Russian  people.  I  don't  understand 
how  it 's  possible  not  to  acknowledge  principles, 
rules  !     By  virtue  of  what  do  you  act  then  ? ' 

*  I  've  told  you  already,  uncle,  that  we  don't 
accept  any  authorities,'  put  in  Arkady. 

'  We  act  by  virtue  of  what  we  recognise  as 
beneficial,'  observed  Bazarov.  '  At  the  present 
time,  negation  is  the  most  beneficial  of  all — and 
we  deny ' 

*  Everything  ? ' 
'  Everything  ! ' 

*  What  ?  not  only  art  and  poetry  ,  .  .  but 
even  .  .  .  horrible  to  say  .  .  .' 

*  Everything,'  repeated  Bazarov,  with  in- 
describable composure. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  stared  at  him.  He  had  not 
expected  this ;  while  Arkady  fairly  blushed 
with  delight. 

*  Allow  me,  though,'  began  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
*  You  deny  everything ;  or,  speaking  more 
precisely,  you  destroy  everything.  .  .  ,  But  one 
must  construct  too,  you  know.' 

'That's  not  our  business  now.  ,  ,  .  The 
ground  wants  clearing  first' 

*  The  present  condition  of  the  people  requires 

it,'  added  Arkady,  with  dignity  ;  '  we  are  bound 

to  carry  out  these   requirements,  we   have  no 

84 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

right  to  yield  to  the  satisfaction  of  our  persona) 
egoism.' 

This  last  phrase  obviously  displeased  Bazarov^  *' 
there  was  a  flavour  of  philosophy,  that  is  to  say, 
romanticism  about  it,  for  Bazarov  called  philo- 
sophy, too,  romanticism,  but  he  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  correct  his  young  disciple. 

No,  no  ! '  cried  Pavel  Petrovitch,  with  sudden 
energy.  '  I  'm  not  willing  to  believe  that  you, 
young  men,  know  the  Russian  people  really, 
that  you  are  the  representatives  of  their  require- 
ments, their  efforts  !  No  ;  the  Russian  people 
is  not  what  you  imagine  it.  Tradition  it  holds 
sacred  ;  it  is  a  patriarchal  people ;  it  cannot  live 
without  faith  .  .  . ' 

*  I  'm  not  going  to  dispute  that,'  Bazarov  inter- 
rupted. '  I  'm  even  ready  to  agree  that  in  that 
you  're  right.' 

*  But  if  I  am  right  .  .  / 

*  And,  all  the  same,  that  proves  nothing.' 

*  It  just  proves  nothing,'  repeated  Arkady, 
with  the  confidence  of  a  practised  chess-player, 
who  has  foreseen  an  apparently  dangerous  move 
on  the  part  of  his  adversary,  and  so  is  not  at 
all  taken  aback  by  it 

*  How  does  it  prove  nothing  ? '  muttered  Pavel 
Petrovitch,  astounded.  *  You  must  be  going 
against  the  people  then  .? ' 

*And   what   if  we   are?'   shouted    Bazarov. 

85 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  The  people  imagine  that,  when  it  thunders,  the 
prophet  Ilya's  riding  across  the  sky  in  his 
chariot.  What  then  ?  Are  we  to  agree  with 
them  ?  Besides,  the  people 's  Russian  ;  but  am 
I  not  Russian  too  ?  * 

'  No,  you  are  not  Russian,  after  all  you  have 
just  been  saying  !  I  can't  acknowledge  you  as 
Russian.' 

'  My  grandfather  ploughed  the  land,'  answered 
Bazarov  with  haughty  pride.  '  Ask  any  one  of 
your  peasants  which  of  us — you  or  me — he'd 
more  readily  acknowledge  as  a  fellow-country- 
man. You  don't  even  know  how  to  talk  to 
them.' 

'  While  you  talk  to  him  and  despise  him  at 
the  same  time.' 

*  Well,  suppose  he  deserves  contempt.  You 
find  fault  with  my  attitude,  but  how  do  you 
know  that  I  have  got  it  by  chance,  that 
it's  not  a  product  of  that  very  national 
spirit,  in  the  name  of  which  you  wage  war 
on  it  ? ' 

*  What  an  idea  !     Much  use  in  nihilists  !  * 

*  Whether  they  're  of  use  or  not,  is  not  for  us    " 
to  decide.     Why,  even  you  suppose  you  're  not 

a  useless  person.' 

'  Gentlemen,     gentlemen,     no     personalities, 

please  ! '  cried  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  getting  up. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  smiled,  and  laving  his  hand 

86 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

on  his  brother's  shoulder,  forced  him  to  sit  down 
again. 

'  Don't  be  uneasy,'  he  said  ;  '  I  shall  not  forget 
myself,  just  through  that  sense  of  dignity  which 
is  made  fun  of  so  mercilessly  by  our  friend — our 
friend,  the  doctor.  Let  me  ask,*  he  resumed, 
turning  again  to  Bazarov ;  *  you  suppose,  pos- 
sibly, that  your  doctrine  is  a  novelty  ?  That  is 
quite  a  mistake.  The  materialism  you  advocate 
has  been  more  than  once  in  vogue  already,  and 
has  always  proved  insufficient .  .  .' 

*  A  foreign  word  again  ! '  broke  in  Bazarov. 
He  was  beginning  to  feel  vicious,  and  his  face 
assumed  a  peculiar  coarse  coppery  hue.  *  In 
the  first  place,  we  advocate  nothing  ;  that 's  not 
our  way.' 

*  What  do  you  do,  then  ? ' 

*  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  do.  Not  long  ago  we 
used  to  say  that  our  officials  took  bribes,  that  we 
had  no  roads,  no  commerce,  no  real  justice  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  I  see,  you  are  reformers — that 's  what 
that's  called,  I  fancy.  I  too  should  agree  to 
many  of  your  reforms,  but  .  .  .' 

*  Then  we  suspected  that  talk,  perpetual  talk, 
*  and  nothing  but  talk,  about  our  social  diseases, 

was  not  worth  while,  that  it  all  led  to  nothing 
but  superficiality  and  pedantry ;  we  saw  that 
our  leading  men,  so-called  advanced  people  and 
reformers,  are  no  good  ;  that  we  busy  ourselves 

87 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

over  foolery,  talk  rubbish  about  art,  unconscious 
creativeness,  parliamentarism,  trial  by  jury,  and 
the  deuce  knows  what  all ;  while,  all  the  while,  it's 
a  question  of  getting  bread  to  eat,  while  we  're 
stifling  under  the  grossest  superstition,  while  all 
our  enterprises  come  to  grief,  simply  because 
there  aren  't  honest  men  enough  to  carry  them 
on,  while  the  very  emancipation  our  Govern- 
ment 's  busy  upon  will  hardly  come  to  any 
good,  because  peasants  are  glad  to  rob  even 
themselves  to  get  drunk  at  the  gin-shop.' 

*  Yes,'  interposed  Pavel  Petrovitch,  *  yes  ;  you 
were  convinced  of  all  this,  and  decided  not  to 
undertake  anything  seriously,  yourselves.' 

*  We  decided  not  to  undertake  anything,'  re- 
peated Bazarov  grimly.  He  suddenly  felt  vexed 
with  himself  for  having,  without  reason,  been  so 
expansive  before  this  gentleman. 

*  But  to  confine  yourselves  to  abuse  ? ' 

*  To  confine  ourselves  to  abuse.' 
'  And  that  is  called  nihilism  ? ' 

'  And  that 's  called  nihilism,'  Bazarov  re- 
peated again,  this  time  with  peculiar  rude- 
ness. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  puckered  up  his  face  a  little. 

*  So   that 's    it ! '   he    observed    in   a   strangely 

composed  voice.     *  Nihilism  is  to  cure  all  our 

woes,  and  you,  you  are  our  heroes  and  saviours. 

But  why  do  you  abuse  others,  those  reformers 

88 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

even  ^     Don't  you  do  as  much  talking  as  every 
one  else  ? ' 

*  Whatever  faults  we  have,  we  do  not  err  in 
that  way/  Bazarov  muttered  between  his  teeth. 

*  What,  then  ?  Do  you  act,  or  what  ?  Are 
you  preparing  for  action  ? ' 

Bazarov  made  no  answer.  Something  like  a 
tremor  passed  over  Pavel  Petrovitch,  but  he  at 
once  regained  control  of  himself. 

*  Hm  !  .  .  .  Action,  destruction  .  .  .'  he  went 
on.  '  But  how  destroy  without  even  knowing 
why  ? ' 

'  We  shall  destroy,  because  we  are  a  force,' 
observed  Arkady. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  looked  at  his  nephew  and 
laughed. 

*  Yes,  a  force  is  not  to  be  called  to  account/ 
said  Arkady,  drawing  himself  up. 

*  Unhappy  boy  ! '  wailed  Pavel  Petrovitch  , 
he  was  positively  incapable  of  maintaining  his 
firm  demeanour  any  longer.  '  If  you  could  only 
realise  what  it  is  you  are  doing  for  your  country. 
No  ;  it 's  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  an  angel ! 
Force  !  There 's  force  in  the  savage  Kalmuck, 
in  the  Mongolian  ;  but  what  is  it  to  us  ?  What 
is  precious  to  us  is  civilisation  ;  yes,  yes,  sir,  its 
fruits  are  precious  to  us.  And  don't  tell  me 
those  fruits  are  worthless  ;  the  poorest  dauber, 
un  boA'bouilleur^  the  man  who  plays  dance  music 

89 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

for  five  farthings  an  evening,  is  of  more  use  than 
you,  because  they  are  the  representatives  of 
civilisation,  and  not  of  brute  Mongolian  force ! 
You  fancy  yourselves  advanced  people,  and  all 
the  while  you  are  only  fit  for  the  Kalmuck's 
hovel !  Force  !  And  recollect,  you  forcible 
gentlemen,  that  you're  only  four  men  and  a 
half,  and  the  others  are  millions,  who  won't  let 
you  trample  their  sacred  traditions  under  foot, 
who  will  crush  you  and  walk  over  you  ! ' 

*  If  we  're  crushed,  serve  us  right,'  observed 
Bazarov.  *  But  that 's  an  open  question.  We 
are  not  so  few  as  you  suppose.' 

*  What  ?  You  seriously  suppose  you  will 
come  to  terms  with  a  whole  people  ? ' 

*  All  Moscow  was  burnt  down,  you  know,  by 
a  farthing  dip,'  answered  Bazarov. 

*  Yes,  yes.  First  a  pride  almost  Satanic,  then 
ridicule — that,  that's  what  it  is  attracts  the  young, 
that 's  what  gains  an  ascendancy  over  the  inex- 
perienced hearts  of  boys  !  Here 's  one  of  them 
sitting  beside  you,  ready  to  worship  the  ground 
under  your  feet.  Look  at  him  !  (Arkady  turned 
away  and  frowned.)  And  this  plague  has  spread 
far  already.  I  have  been  told  that  in  Rome  our 
artists  never  set  foot  in  the  Vatican.  Raphael 
they  regard  as  almost  a  fool,  because,  if  you 
please,  he 's  an  authority  ;  while  they  're  all  the 

while  most  disgustingly  sterile  and  unsuccessful, 

90 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

men  whose  imagination  does  not  soar  beyond 
*  Girls  at  a  Fountain,'  however  they  try  !  And 
the  girls  even  out  of  drawing.  They  are  fine 
fellows  to  your  mind,  are  they  not  ?  ' 
""^  *  To  my  mind,'  retorted  Bazarov,  *  Raphael 's 
not  worth  a  brass  farthing  ;  and  they  're  no 
better  than  he.' 

*  Bravo  !  bravo  I  Listen,  Arkady  .  .  .  that 's 
how  young  men  of  to-day  ought  to  express 
themselves  !  And  if  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
how  could  they  fail  to  follow  you  !  In  old  days, 
young  men  had  to  study  ;  they  didn't  want  to 
be  called  dunces,  so  they  had  to  work  hard 
whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  But  now,  they 
need  only  say,  "  Everything  in  the  world  is 
foolery ! "  and  the  trick 's  done.  Young  men  are 
delighted.  And,  to  be  sure,  they  were  simply 
geese  before,  and  now  they  have  suddenly  turned 
nihilists.' 

*  Your  praiseworthy  sense  of  personal  dignity 
has  given  way,'  remarked  Bazarov  phlegmati- 
caily,  while  Arkady  was  hot  all  over,  and  his 
eyes  were  flashing.  *  Our  argument  has  gone 
too  far  ;  it 's  better  to  cut  it  short,  I  think.  I 
shall  be  quite  ready  to  agree  with  you,'  he 
added,  getting  up,  '  when  you  bring  forward  a 
single  institution  in  our  present  mode  of  life, 
in  family  or  in  social  life,  which  does  not  call 
for  complete  and  unqualified  destruction.' 

91 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

'  I  will  bring  forward  millions  of  such  insti- 
tutions,' cried  Pavel  Petrovitch  —  *  millions  ! 
Well — the  Mir,  for  instance.' 

A  cold  smile  curved  Bazarov's  lips.  *  Well, 
as  regards  the  Mir,'  he  commented  ;  '  you  had 
better  talk  to  your  brother.  He  has  seen  by 
now,  I  should  fancy,  what  sort  of  thing  the 
Mir  is  in  fact  —  its  common  guarantee,  its 
sobriety,  and  other  features  of  the  kind.' 

*  The  family,  then,  the  family  as  it  exists 
among  our  peasants  ! '  cried  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

'  And  that  subject,  too,  I  imagine,  it  will  be 
better  for  yourselves  not  to  go  into  in  detail. 
Don't  you  realise  all  the  advantages  of  the  head 
of  the  family  choosing  his  daughters-in-law  ? 
Take  my  advice,  Pavel  Petrovitch,  allow  your- 
self two  days  to  think  about  it ;  you  're  not 
likely  to  find  anything  on  the  spot.  Go  through 
all  our  classes,  and  think  well  over  each,  while  I 
and  Arkady  will  .  .  .' 

'  Will  go  on  turning  everything  into  ridi- 
cule,' broke  in  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

*  No,  will  go  on  dissecting  frogs.  Come, 
Arkady ;  good-bye  for  the  present,  gentle- 
men !' 

The  two  friends  walked  off.     The  brothers 

were  left  alone,  and  at  first  they  only  looked  at 

one  another. 

'  So  that/  began  Pavel  Petrovitch,  *  so  that 's 

92 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

what  our  young  men  of  this  generation  are  t 
They  are  like  that — our  successors  ! ' 

'Our  successors!'  repeated  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch,  with  a  dejected  smile.  He  had  been  sit- 
ting on  thorns,  all  through  the  argument,  and 
had  done  nothing  but  glance  stealthily,  with  a 
sore  heart,  at  Arkady.  *  Do  you  know  what  I 
was  reminded  of,  brother  ?  I  once  had  a  dispute 
with  our  poor  mother;  she  stormed,  and  wouldn't 
listen  to  me.  At  last  I  said  to  her,  "  Of  course, 
you  can't  understand  me  ;  we  belong,"  I  said, 
"  to  two  different  generations."  She  was  dread- 
fully offended,  while  I  thought,  "  There 's  no 
help  for  it.  It's  a  bitter  pill,  but  she  has  to 
swallow  it."  You  see,  now,  our  turn  has  come, 
and  our  successors  can  say  to  us,  "  You 
are  not  of  our  generation ;  swallow  your 
pill." ' 

'  You  are  beyond  everything  in  your  gener- 
osity and  modesty,'  replied  Pavel  Petrovitch. 
*  I  'm  convinced,  on  the  contrary,  that  you  and 
I  are  far  more  in  the  right  than  these  young 
gentlemen,  though  we  do  perhaps  express  our- 
selves in  old-fashioned  language,  vieilli^  and  have 
not  the  same  insolent  conceit  .  .  .  And  the 
swagger  of  the  young  men  nowadays  I  You 
ask  one,  *  Do  you  take  red  wine  or  white  ? '' 
"  It  is  my  custom  to  prefer  red  ! "  he  answers. 
in  a  deep  bass,  with  a  face  as  solemn  as  '\.i  the 

93 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

whole  universe  had  its  eyes  on  him  at  that 
instant. .  .  .' 

'  Do  you  care  for  any  more  tea  ? '  asked 
Fenitchka,  putting  her  head  in  at  the  door  ; 
she  had  not  been  able  to  make  up  her  mind  to 
come  into  the  drawing-room  while  there  was 
the  sound  of  voices  in  dispute  there. 

*  No,  you  can  tell  them  to  take  the  samovar,' 
answered  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  and  he  got  up  to 
meet  her.  Pavel  Petrovitch  said  *  bon  soir '  to 
him  abruptly,  and  went  away  to  his  study. 


94 


XI 

Half  an  hour  later  Nikolai  Petrovitch  went 
into  the  garden  to  his  favourite  arbour.  He 
was  overtaken  by  melancholy  thoughts.  For 
the  first  time  he  realised  clearly  the  distance 
between  him  and  his  son ;  he  foresaw  that 
every  day  it  would  grow  wider  and  wider.  In 
vain,  then,  had  he  spent  whole  days  sometimes 
in  the  winter  at  Petersburg  over  the  newest 
books ;  in  vain  had  he  listened  to  the  talk  of 
the  young  men  ;  in  vain  had  he  rejoiced  when 
he  succeeded  in  putting  in  his  word  too  in  their 
heated  discussions.  *  My  brother  says  we  are 
right,'  he  thought,  'and  apart  from  all  vanity, 
I  do  think  myself  that  they  are  further  from 
the  truth  than  we  are,  though  at  the  same 
time  I  feel  there  is  something  behind  them 
we  have  not  got,  some  superiority  over  us. 
.  .  .  Is  it  youth  ?  No ;  not  only  youth. 
Doesn't  their  superiority  consist  in  there  being 
fewer  traces  of  the  slaveowner  in  them  than  in 
us?' 

95 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

Nikolai  Petrovitch's  head  sank  despondently, 
and  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  face. 

'  But  to  renounce  poetry  ?  '  he  thought  again  ; 
*  to  have  no  feeling  for  art,  for  nature  .  .  .' 

And  he  looked   round,  as   though  trying  to 

understand  how  it    was    possible    to    have   no 

feeling  for  nature.     It  was  already  evening  ;  the 

sun  was  hidden  behind  a  small  copse  of  aspens 

which  lay  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  garden  ; 

its  shadow  stretched  indefinitely  across  the  still 

fields.     A  peasant  on  a   white  nag  went  at  a 

trot  along  the  dark,  narrow  path  close  beside 

the  copse  ;  his  whole  figure  was  clearly  visible 

even  to  the  patch  on  his  shoulder,  in  spite  of 

his  being  in  the  shade  ;  the  horse's  hoofs  flew 

along  bravely.     The  sun's  rays  from  the  farther 

side  fell  full  on  the  copse,  and  piercing  through 

its  thickets,  threw  such  a  warm  light  on  the  aspen 

trunks  that  they  looked   like  pines,  and  their 

leaves   were  almost  a   dark  blue,  while   above 

them  rose  a  pale  blue  sky,  faintly  tinged  by  the 

glow  of  sunset.     The  swallows  flew  high  ;  the 

wind  had  quite  died  away,  belated  bees  hummed 

slowly  and  drowsily  among  the  lilac  blossom ; 

a  swarm  of  midges  hung  like  a  cloud  over  a 

solitary  branch  which  stood  out  against  the  sky. 

'  How  beautiful,   my   God  ! '    thought   Nikolai 

Petrovitch,  and  his  favourite  verses  were  almost 

on  his  lips  ;  he  remembered  Arkady's  Stoff  und 

q6 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Kraft — and  was  silent,  but  still  he  sat  there, 
still  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  sorrowful  consola- 
tion of  solitary  thought.  He  was  fond  of  dream- 
ing; his  country  life  had  developed  the  tendency 
in  him.  How  short  a  time  ago,  he  had  been 
dreaming  like  this,  waiting  for  his  son  at  the 
porting  station,  and  what  a  change  already  since 
that  day  ;  their  relations  that  were  then  unde- 
fined, were  defined  now — and  how  defined  \ 
Again  his  dead  wife  came  back  to  his  imagina- 
tion, but  not  as  he  had  known  her  for  many 
years,  not  as  the  good  domestic  housewife,  but 
as  a  young  girl  with  a  slim  figure,  innocently 
inquiring  eyes,  and  a  tight  twist  of  hair  on  her 
childish  neck.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
seen  her  for  the  first  time.  He  was  still  a  student 
then.  He  had  met  her  on  the  staircase  of  his 
lodgings,  and,  jostling  by  accident  against  her, 
he  tried  to  apologise,  and  could  only  mutter, 
^Pardon,  monsieur  I  while  she  bowed,  smiled, 
and  suddenly  seemed  frightened,  and  ran  away, 
though  at  the  bend  of  the  staircase  she  had 
glanced  rapidly  at  him,  assumed  a  serious  air, 
and  blushed.  Afterwards,  the  first  timid  visits, 
the  half-words,  the  half-smiles,  and  embarrass- 
ment ;  and  melancholy,  and  yearnings,  and  at 
last  that  breathing  rapture.  .  .  .  Where  had  it 
all  vanished  ?  She  had  been  his  wife,  he  had 
been   happy   as  few  on  earth   are   happy.  .  , 

97  G 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  But,'  he  mused,  *  these  sweet  first  moments, 
why  could  one  not  live  an  eternal,  undying  life  in 
them  ?  * 

He  did  not  try  to  make  his  thought  clear  to 
himself;  but  he  felt  that  he  longed  to  keep 
that  blissful  time  by  something  stronger  than 
memory  ;  he  longed  to  feel  his  Marya  near  him 
again  to  have  the  sense  of  her  warmth  and 
breathing,  and  already  he  could  fancy  that  over 
him.  .  .  . 

*  Nikolai  Petrovitch,'  came  the  sound  of 
Fenitchka's  voice  close  by  him  ;  '  where  are  you?' 

He  started.  He  felt  no  pang,  no  shame. 
He  never  even  admitted  the  possibility  of 
comparison  between  his  wife  and  Fenitchka, 
but  he  was  sorry  she  had  thought  of  coming 
to  look  for  him.  Her  voice  had  brought  back 
to  him  at  once  his  grey  hairs,  his  age,  his 
reality.  .  .  . 

The  enchanted  world  into  which  he  was  just 
stepping,  which  was  just  rising  out  of  the  dim 
mists  of  the  past,  was  shaken — and  vanished. 

'  I  'm  here,'  he  answered  ;  *  I  'm  coming,  run 
along.'  'There  it  is,  the  traces  of  the  slave 
owner,'  flashed  through  his  mind.  Fenitchka 
peeped  into  the  arbour  at  him  without  speak- 
ing, and  disappeared ;  while  he  noticed  with 
astonishment  that  the  night  had  come  on  while 
he  had  been  dreaming.     Everything  around  was 

98 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

dark  and  hushed.  Fenitchka's  face  had  glim- 
mered so  pale  and  slight  before  him.  He  got 
up,  and  was  about  to  go  home  ;  but  the  emotion 
stirred  in  his  heart  could  not  be  soothed  at  once, 
and  he  began  slowly  walking  about  the  garden, 
sometimes  looking  at  the  ground  at  his  feet, 
and  then  raising  his  eyes  towards  the  sky  where 
swarms  of  stars  were  twinkling.  He  walked  a 
great  deal,  till  he  was  almost  tired  out,  while 
the  restlessness  within  him,  a  kind  of  yearning, 
vague,  melancholy  restlessness,  still  was  not 
appeased.  Oh,  how  Bazarov  would  have  laughed 
at  him,  if  he  had  known  what  was  passing  within 
him  then !  Arkady  himself  would  have  con- 
demned him.  He,  a  man  forty-four  years  old, 
an  agriculturist  and  a  farmer,  was  shedding 
tears,  causeless  tears  ;  this  was  a  hundred  times 
worse  than  the  violoncello. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  continued  walking,  and 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  go  into  the 
house,  into  the  snug  peaceful  nest,  which  looked 
out  at  him  so  hospitably  from  all  its  lighted 
windows  ;  he  had  not  the  force  to  tear  himself 
away  from  the  darkness,  the  garden,  the  sense 
of  the  fresh  air  in  his  face,  from  that  melan- 
choly, that  restless  craving. 

At  a  turn  in  the  path,  he  was  met  by  Pavel 
Petrovitch.  *  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ? ' 
he  asked  Nikolai  Petrovitch  ;  '  you  are  as  white 

99 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

as  a  ghost  ;  you  are  not  well  ;  why  don't  you  go 
to  bed  ? ' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  explained  to  him  briefly 
his  state  of  feeling  and  moved  away.  Pavel 
Petrovitch  went  to  the  end  of  the  garden,  and 
he  too  grew  thoughtful,  and  he  too  raised  his 
eyes  towards  the  heavens.  But  in  his  beautiful 
dark  eyes,  nothing  was  reflected  but  the  light 
of  the  stars.  He  was  not  born  an  idealist,  and 
his  fastidiously  dry  and  sensuous  soul,  with  its 
French  tinge  of  cynicism  was  not  capable  of 
dreaming.  .  .  . 

'  Do  you  know  what  ? '  Bazarov  was  saying 
to  Arkady  the  same  night.  '  I  've  got  a  splendid 
idea.  Your  father  was  saying  to-day  that  he  'd 
had  an  invitation  from  your  illustrious  relative. 

Your  father's  not  going  ;  let  us  be  off  to  X ; 

you  know  the  worthy  man  invites  you  too. 
You  see  what  fine  weather  it  is  ;  we  '11  stroll 
about  and  look  at  the  town.  We  '11  have  five  or 
six  days'  outing,  and  enjoy  ourselves.' 

*  And  you  '11  come  back  here  again  ?  ' 

*  No  ;  I  must  go  to  my  father's.    You  know,  he 

lives  about  twenty-five  miles  from  X .     I  've 

not  seen  him  for  a  long  while,  and  my  mother 
too  ;  I  must  cheer  the  old  people  up.  They  've 
been  good  to  me,  especially  my  father ;  he 's 
awfully  funny.     I  'm  their  only  one  too.' 

*  And  will  you  be  long  with  them  ? ' 

lOO 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

*  I  don't  suppose  so.  It  will  be  dull,  of 
course.' 

'  And  you  '11  come  to  us  on  your  way  back  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  ...  I  '11  see.  Well,  what  do 
you  say  ?     Shall  we  go  ? ' 

'  If  you  like,'  observed  Arkady  languidly. 

In  his  heart  he  was  highly  delighted  with 
his  friend's  suggestion,  but  he  thought  it  a  duty 
to  conceal  his  feeling.  He  was  not  a  nihilist  for 
nothing ! 

The  next  day  he  set  off  with  Bazarov  to  X . 

The  younger  part  of  the  household  at  Maryino 
were  sorry  at  their  going  ;  Dunyasha  even  cried 
,  ,  .  but  the  old  folks  breathed  more  easily. 


TOE 


XII 

The  town  of  X to  which  our  friends  set  off 

was  in  the  jurisdiction  of  a  governor  who  was  a 
young  man,  and  at  once  a  progressive  and  a  des- 
pot, as  often  happens  with  Russians.  Before  the 
end  of  the  first  year  of  his  government,  he  had 
managed  to  quarrel  not  only  with  the  marshal 
of  nobility,  a  retired  officer  of  the  guards,  who 
kept  open  house  and  a  stud  of  horses,  but  even 
with  his  own  subordinates.  The  feuds  arising 
from  this  cause  assumed  at  last  such  propor- 
tions that  the  ministry  in  Petersburg  had  found 
it  necessary  to  send  down  a  trusted  personage 
with  a  commission  to  investigate  it  all  on  the 
spot  The  choice  of  the  authorities  fell  upon 
Matvy  Ilyitch  Kolyazin,  the  son  of  the  Kol- 
yazin,  under  whose  protection  the  brothers 
Kirsanov  had  once  found  themselves.  He,  too, 
was  a  *  young  man ' ;  that  is  to  say,  he  had  not 
long  passed  forty,  but  he  was  already  on  the 
high  road  to  becoming  a  statesman,  and  wore  a 
star  on  each  side  of  his  breast — one,  to  be  sure, 

I02 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

a  foreign  star,  not  of  the  first  magnitude.  Like 
the  governor,  whom  he  had  come  down  to  pass 
judgment  upon,  he  was  reckoned  a  progres- 
sive ;  and  though  he  was  already  a  bigwig, 
he  was  not  like  the  majority  of  bigwigs.  He 
had  the  highest  opinion  of  himself;  his  vanity 
knew  no  bounds,  but  he  behaved  simply,  looked 
affable,  listened  condescendingly,  and  laughed 
so  good-naturedly,  that  on  a  first  acquaintance 
he  might  even  be  taken  for  *  a  jolly  good  fellow.' 
On  important  occasions,  however,  he  knew,  as 
the  saying  is,  how  to  make  his  authority  felt. 
*  Energy  is  essential,'  he  used  to  say  then, 
*r Anergic  est  la  premikre  qualiti  d'un  homme 
ditat ; '  and  for  all  that,  he  was  usually  taken 
in,  and  any  moderately  experienced  ofificial 
could  turn  him  round  his  finger.  Matvy 
Ilyitch  used  to  speak  with  great  respect  oi 
Guizot,  and  tried  to  impress  every  one  with  the 
idea  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  class  of 
routiniers  and  high-and-dry  bureaucrats,  that 
not  a  single  phenomenon  of  social  life  passed  un- 
noticed by  him.  .  .  .  All  such  phrases  were  very 
familiar  to  him.  He  even  followed,  with  digni- 
fied indifference,  it  is  true,  the  development  of 
contemporary  literature  ;  so  a  grown-up  man 
who  meets  a  procession  of  small  boys  in  the 
street  will  sometimes  walk  after  it.  In  reality, 
Matvy  Ilyitch  had  not  got  much  beyond  those 

103 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

political  men  of  the  days  of  Alexander,  who 
used  to  prepare  for  an  evening  party  at  Madame 
Svyetchin's  by  reading  a  page  of  Condillac  ; 
only  his  methods  were  different,  more  modern. 
He  was  an  adroit  courtier,  a  great  hypocrite,  and 
nothing  more ;  he  had  no  special  aptitude  for 
affairs,  and  no  intellect,  but  he  knew  how  to 
manage  his  own  business  successfully ;  no  one 
could  get  the  better  of  him  there,  and,  to  be 
sure,  that 's  the  principal  thing. 

Matvy  Ilyitch  received  Arkady  with  the 
good-nature,  we  might  even  call  it  playfulness, 
characteristic  of  the  enlightened  higher  official. 
He  was  astonished,  however,  when  he  heard 
that  the  cousins  he  had  invited  had  remained  at 
home  in  the  country.  *  Your  father  was  always 
a  queer  fellow,'  he  remarked,  playing  with  the 
tassels  of  his  magnificent  velvet  dressing-gown, 
and  suddenly  turning  to  a  young  official  in  a 
discreetly  buttoned-up  uniform,  he  cried,  with 
an  air  of  concentrated  attention, '  What  ? '  The 
young  man,  whose  lips  were  glued  together  from 
prolonged  silence,  got  up  and  looked  in  per- 
plexity at  his  chief  But,  having  nonplussed 
his  subordinate,  Matvy  Ilyitch  paid  him  no 
further  attention.  Our  higher  officials  are  fond 
as  a  rule  of  nonplussing  their  subordinates  ; 
the  methods  to  which  they  have  recourse  to 
attain  that  end  are  rather  various.     The  foUow- 

lOA 


f  ATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Ing  means,  among  others,  is  in  great  vogue,  *  is 
quite  a  favourite,*  as  the  English  say  ;  a  high 
official  suddenly  ceases  to  understand  the 
simplest  words,  assuming  total  deafness.  He 
will  ask,  for  instance,  *  What 's  to-day  ?  * 

He  is  respectfully  informed,  '  To-day 's  Friday, 
your  Ex-s-s-s-lency.' 

'  Eh  ?  What  ?  What 's  that  ?  What  do  you 
say  ? '  the  great  man  repeats  with  intense 
attention. 

*  To-day 's  Friday,  your  Ex — s — s — lency.* 

*  Eh  ?  What  ?  What 's  Friday  ?  What  Fri- 
day ? ' 

*  Friday,  your  Ex — s — s — s — lency,  the  day 
of  the  week.' 

'  What,  do  you  pretend  to  teach  me,  eh  ?  * 
Matvy  Ilyitch  was  a  higher  official  all  the 
same,  though  he  was  reckoned  a  liberal. 

'  I  advise  you,  my  dear  boy,  to  go  and  call 
on  the  Governor/  he  said  to  Arkady  ;  '  you 
understand,  I  don't  advise  you  to  do  so  because 
I  adhere  to  old-fashioned  ideas  of  the  necessity 
of  paying  respect  to  authorities,  but  simply 
because  the  Governor 's  a  very  decent  fellow  ; 
besides,  you  probably  want  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  the  society  here.  .  .  .  You're  not  a 
bear,  I  hope  ?  And  he 's  giving  a  great  ball  the 
day  after  to-morrow.' 

'  Will  you  be  at  the  ball  ? '  inquired  Arkady. 

105 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  He  gives  it  in  my  honour,'  answered  Matvy 
Ilyitch,  almost  pityingly.     *  Do  you  dance  ? ' 

*  Yes  ;  I  dance,  but  not  well' 

*  That 's  a  pity  !  There  are  pretty  girls  here, 
and  it's  a  disgrace  for  a  young  man  not  to 
dance.  Again,  I  don't  say  that  through  any 
old-fashioned  ideas  ;  I  don't  in  the  least  imagine 
that  a  man's  wit  lies  in  his  feet,  but  Byronism  is 
ridiculous,  il  a  fait  son  temps! 

*  But,  uncle,  it 's  not  through  Byronism,  I  .  .  .' 

*  I  will  introduce  you  to  the  ladies  here  ;  I  will 
take  you  under  my  wing,'  interrupted  Matvy 
Ilyitch,  and  he  laughed  complacently.  *  You  '11 
find  it  warm,  eh  ? ' 

A  servant  entered  and  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  superintendent  of  the  Crown  domains,  a 
mild-eyed  old  man,  with  deep  creases  round  his 
mouth,  who  was  excessively  fond  of  nature, 
especially  on  a  summer  day,  when,  in  his  words, 

*  every  little  busy  bee  takes  a  little  bribe  from 
every  little  flower.'     Arkady  withdrew. 

He  found  Bazarov  at  the  tavern  where  they 
were  staying,  and  was  a  long  while  persuading 
him  to  go  with  him  to  the  Governor's.  '  Well, 
there's  no   help  for   it,'  said    Bazarov  at  last. 

*  It 's  no   good    doing   things   by  halves.     We 
came  to  look  at  the  gentry;  let 's  look  at  them  !  * 

The  Governor  received  the  young  men  affably, 

but  he  did  not  ask  them  to  sit  down,  nor  did  he 

io6 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

sit  down  himself.  He  was  in  an  everlasting 
fuss  and  hurry ;  in  the  morning  he  used  to  put 
on  a  tight  uniform  and  an  excessively  stiff 
cravat ;  he  never  ate  or  drank  enough  ;  he  was 
for  ever  making  arrangements.  He  invited 
Kirsanov  and  Bazarov  to  his  ball,  and  within 
a  few  minutes  invited  them  a  second  time, 
regarding  them  as  brothers,  and  calling  them 
Kisarov. 

They  were  on  their  way  home  from  the 
Governor's,  when  suddenly  a  short  man,  in  a 
Slavophil  national  dress,  leaped  out  of  a  trap 
that  was  passing  them,  and  crying,  'Yevgeny 
Vassilyitch  ! '  dashed  up  to  Bazarov. 

*  Ah !  it 's  you,  Herr  Sitnikov/  observed 
Ba.zarov,  still  stepping  along  on  the  pavement ; 
*  by  what  chance  did  you  come  here  ? ' 

*  Fancy,  absolutely  by  chance,'  he  replied, 
and  returning  to  the  trap,  he  waved  his  hand 
several  times,  and  shouted,  '  Follow,  follow  us ! 
My  father  had  business  here,'  he  went  on, 
hopping  across  the  gutter,  *  and  so  he  asked  me. 
...  I  heard  to-day  of  your  arrival,  and  have 
already  been  to  see  you.  ....  (The  friends  did, 
in  fact,  on  returning  to  their  room,  find  there  a 
card,  with  the  corners  turned  down,  bearing  the 
name  of  Sitnikov,  on  one  side  in  French,  on 
the  other  in  Slavonic  characters.)  *  I  hope  you 
are  not  coming  from  the  Governor's  ? ' 

I07 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

'  It's  no  use  to  hope  ;  we  come  straight  from 
him.' 

*  Ah !  in  that  case  I  will  call  on  him  too.  .  .  , 
Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  introduce  me  to  your  .  .  . 
to  the  .       ' 

*  Sitnikov,  Kirsanov/  mumbled  Bazarov,  not 
stopping. 

'  I  am  greatly  flattered/  began  Sitnikov,  walk- 
ing sidewise,  smirking,  and  hurriedly  pulling  off 
his  really  over-elegant  gloves.  *  I  have  heard 
so  much.  ...  I  am  an  old  acquaintance  of 
Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  and,  I  may  say — his 
disciple.  I  am  indebted  to  him  for  my 
regeneration.  .  .  .' 

Arkady  looked  at  Bazarov's  disciple.  There 
was  an  expression  of  excitement  and  dulness 
imprinted  on  the  small  but  pleasant  features  of 
his  well-groomed  face ;  his  small  eyes,  that 
seemed  squeezed  in,  had  a  fixed  and  uneasy 
look,  and  his  laugh,  too,  was  uneasy — a  sort  of 
short,  wooden  laugh. 

'  Would  you  believe  it/  he  pursued,  '  when 
Yevgeny  Vassilyitch  for  the  first  time  said 
before  me  that  it  was  not  right  to  accept  any 
authorities,  I  felt  such  enthusiasm  ...  as  though 
my  eyes  were  opened  !  Here,  I  thought,  at  last 
I  have  found  a  man  !  By  the  way,  Yevgeny 
Vassilyitch,  you  positively  must  come  to  know  a 

lady  here,  who  is  really  capable  of  understanding 

1 08 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

you,  and  for  whom  your  visit  would  be  a  real 
festival  ;  you  have  heard  of  her,  I  suppose  ? ' 
'  Who  is  it  ? '  Bazarov  brought  out  unwillingly. 

*  Kukshina,  Eudoxie,  Evdoksya  Kukshin. 
She 's  a  remarkable  nature,  hnancip^e  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word,  an  advanced  woman.  Do 
you  know  what  ?  We  11  all  go  together  to  see 
her  now.  She  lives  only  two  steps  from  here. 
We  will  have  lunch  there.  I  suppose  you  have 
not  lunched  yet  ? ' 

'  No  ;  not  yet' 

*  Well,  that 's  capital.  She  has  separated, 
you  understand,  from  her  husband  ;  she  is  not 
dependent  on  any  one.' 

*  Is  she  pretty  ? '  Bazarov  cut  in. 

*  N  ...  no,  one  couldn't  say  that.' 

*  Then,  what  the  devil  are  you  asking  us  to 
see  her  for  ? ' 

*  Fie  ;  you  must  have  your  joke.  .  ,  .  She  will 
give  us  a  bottle  of  champagne.' 

'Oh,  that's  it.  One  can  see  the  practical 
man  at  once.  By  the  way,  is  your  father  still 
in  the  gin  business  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  said  Sitnikov,  hurriedly,  and  he  gave 
a  shrill  spasmodic  laugh.  *  Well  ?  Will  you 
come  ? ' 

*  I  don't  really  know.' 

*  You  wanted  to  see  people,  go  along,'  said 

Arkady  in  an  undertone. 

109 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

*  And  what  do  you  say  to  it,  Mr.  Kirsanov  ? ' 
Sitnikov  put  in.  *  You  must  come  too ;  we 
can't' go  without  you.' 

*  But  how  can  we  burst  in  upon  her  all  at 
once  ? ' 

*  That 's  no  matter.     Kukshina  's  a  brick  ! ' 

*  There  will  be  a  bottle  of  champagne  ? '  asked 
Bazarov. 

*  Three  ! '  cried  Sitnikov ;  *  that  I  answer  for.* 

*  What  with  ? ' 

*  My  own  head.' 

*  Your  father's  purse  would  be  better.  How- 
ever, we  are  coming,' 


m 


XIII 

The  small  gentleman's  house  in  the  Moscow 
style,  in  which  Avdotya  Nikitishna,  otherwise  Ev- 
doksya,  Kukshin,  lived,  was  in  one  of  the  streets 

of  X ,  which  had  been  lately  burnt  down ; 

it  is  well  known  that  our  provincial  towns  are 
burnt  down  every  five  years.  At  the  door, 
above  a  visiting  card  nailed  on  all  askew,  there 
was  a  bell-handle  to  be  seen,  and  in  the  hall  the 
visitors  were  met  by  some  one,  not  exactly  a 
servant,  nor  exactly  a  companion,  in  a  cap — 
unmistakable  tokens  of  the  progressive  ten- 
dencies of  the  ladi'  of  the  house.  Sitnikov  in- 
quired whether  Avdotya  Nikitishna  was  at  home. 

*  Is  that  you,  Victor}^  sounded  a  shrill  voice 
from  the  adjoining  room.    '  Come  in.' 

The  woman  in  the  cap  disappeared  at  once. 

'  I  'm  not  alone,'  observed   Sitnikov,  with  a 

sharp  look  at  Arkady  and  Bazarov  as  he  briskly 

pulled  off  his  overcoat,  beneath  which  appeared 

something  of  the  nature  of  a  coachman's  velvet 

jacket. 

Ill 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

*  No  matter/  answered  the  voice.     '  Enfrez' 
The  young  men  went  in.      The  room    into 

which  they  walked  was  more  like  a  working 
study  than  a  drawing-room.  Papers,  letters,  fat 
numbers  of  Russian  journals,  for  the  most  part 
uncut,  lay  at  random  on  the  dusty  tables ; 
white  cigarette  ends  lay  scattered  in  every 
direction.  On  a  leather-covered  sofa,  a  lady, 
still  young,  was  half  reclining.  Her  fair  hair 
was  rather  dishevelled  ;  she  wore  a  silk  gown, 
not  perfectly  tidy,  heavy  bracelets  on  her  short 
arms,  and  a  lace  handkerchief  on  her  head. 
She  got  up  from  the  sofa,  and  carelessly  drawing 
a  velvet  cape  trimmed  with  yellowish  ermine 
over  her  shoulders,  she  said  languidly,  '  Good- 
morning,  Victor,'  and  pressed  Sitnikov's  hand. 

*  Bazarov,  Kirsanov,'  he  announced  abruptly 
in  imitation  of  Bazarov. 

*  Delighted,'  answered  Madame  Kukshin,  and 
fixing  on  Bazarov  a  pair  of  round  eyes,  between 
which  was  a  forlorn  little  turned-up  red  nose, 
*  I  know  you,'  she  added,  and  pressed  his  hand 
too. 

Bazarov  scowled.  There  was  nothing  repul- 
sive in  the  little  plain  person  of  the  emancipated 
woman ;  but  the  expression  of  her  face  produced 
a  disagreeable  effect  on  the  spectator.  One  felt 
impelled  to  ask  her,  *  What 's  the  matter ;  are 
you  hungry  ?     Or  bored  ?    Or  shy  ?    What  are 

112 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

you  in  a  fidget  about?'  Both  she  and  Sitnikov 
had  always  the  same  uneasy  air.  She  was  ex- 
tremely unconstrained,  and  at  the  same  time 
awkward ;  she  obviously  regarded  herself  as  a 
good-natured,  simple  creature,  and  all  the  while, 
whatever  she  did,  it  always  struck  one  that  it 
was  not  just  what  she  wanted  to  do ;  every- 
thing with  her  seemed,  as  children  say,  done 
on  purpose,  that's  to  say,  not  simply,  not 
naturally. 

*  Yes,  yes,  I  know  you,  Bazarov,'  she  repeated. 
(She  had  the  habit — peculiar  to  many  provincial 
and  Moscow  ladies — of  calling  men  by  their 
surnames  from  the  first  day  of  acquaintance 
with  them.)     *  Will  you  have  a  cigar  ? ' 

'  A  cigar's  all  very  well,'  put  in  Sitnikov,  who 
by  now  was  lolling  in  an  armchair,  his  legs  in 
the  air ;  '  but  give  us  some  lunch.  We  're 
awfully  hungry ;  and  tell  them  to  bring  us  up 
a  little  bottle  of  champagne.' 

'  Sybarite,'  commented  Evdoksya,  and  she 
laughed.  (When  she  laughed  the  gum  showed 
above  her  upper  teeth.)  '  Isn't  it  true,  Bazarov  ; 
he 's  a  Sybarite  ? ' 

*  I  like  comfort  in  life,'  Sitnikov  brought  out, 
with  dignity.  *  That  does  not  prevent  my  being 
a  Liberal.' 

*  No,  it  does ;  it  does  prevent  it ! '  cried  Ev- 
doksya.    She  gave  directions,  however,  to  her 

113  H 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

maid,  both  as  regards  the  lunch  and  the  cham- 
pagne. 

*  What  do  you  think  about  it  ? '  she  added, 
turning  to  Bazarov.  *  I  'm  persuaded  you  share 
my  opinion.' 

*  Well,  no/  retorted  Bazarov ;  '  a  piece  of 
meat's  better  than  a  piece  of  bread  even  from 
the  chemical  point  of  view.' 

*  You  are  studying  chemistry  ?  That  is  my 
passion.  I  Ve  even  invented  a  new  sort  of  com- 
position myself.' 

*  A  composition  ?     You  ? ' 

*  Yes.  And  do  you  know  for  what  purpose  ? 
To  make  dolls'  heads  so  that  they  shouldn't 
break.  I  'm  practical,  too,  you  see.  But  every- 
thing's not  quite  ready  yet.  I  've  still  to  read 
Liebig.  By  the  way,  have  you  read  Kislyakov's 
article  on  Female  Labour,  in  the  Moscow 
Gazette  ?  Read  it,  please.  You  're  interested 
in  the  woman  question,  I  suppose  ?  And  in 
the  schools  too  ?  What  does  your  friend  do  ? 
What  is  his  name  ? ' 

Madame  Kukshin  shed  her  questions  one 
after  another  with  affected  negligence,  not 
waiting  for  an  answer  ;  spoilt  children  talk  so  to 
their  nurses. 

*  My  name's  Arkady  Nikolaitch  Kirsanov, 
said  Arkady,  *  and  I  'm  doing  nothing.' 

Evdoksya  giggled.    *  How  charming  !    What, 

114 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

don't  you  smoke  ?     Victor,  do  you  know,  I  'm 
very  angry  with  you.' 
'  What  for  ?  ' 

*  They  tell  me  you  've  begun  singing  the 
praises  of  George  Sand  again.  A  retrograde 
woman,  and  nothing  else !  How  can  people 
compare  her  with  Emerson  !  She  hasn't  an  idea 
on  education,  nor  physiology,  nor  anything. 
She  'd  never,  I  'm  persuaded,  heard  of  embryo- 
logy, and  in  these  days — what  can  be  done 
without  that  ?  '  (Evdoksya  even  threw  up  her 
hands.)  *  Ah,  what  a  wonderful  article  Elisye- 
vitch  has  written  on  that  subject !  He 's  a 
gentleman  of  genius.'  (Evdoksya  constantly 
made  use  of  the  word  *  gentleman '  instead  of 
the  word  '  man.')  '  Bazarov,  sit  by  me  on  the 
sofa.  You  don't  know,  perhaps,  I  'm  awfully 
afraid  of  you.' 

*  Why  so  ?     Allow  me  to  ask.' 

'  You  're  a  dangerous  gentleman  ;  you  're  such 
a  critic.  Good  God  !  yes  !  why,  how  absurd,  I  'm 
talking  like  some  country  lady.  I  really  am  a 
country  lady,  though.  I  manage  my  property 
myself;  and  only  fancy,  my  bailiff  Erofay 's 
a  wonderful  type,  quite  like  Cooper's  Path- 
finder ;  something  in  him  so  spontaneous ! 
I  've  come  to  settle  here  finally ;  it 's  an 
intolerable  town,  isn't  it  ?     But  what 's  one  to 

do?' 

"S 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  The  town  's  like  every  town,'  Bazarov  re- 
marked coolly. 

*  All  its  interests  are  so  petty,  that 's  what's 
so  awful !  I  used  to  spend  the  winters  in 
Moscow  .  .  .  but  now  my  lawful  spouse,  Mon- 
sieur Kukshin  's  residing  there.  And  besides, 
Moscow  nowadays  .  .  .  there,  I  don't  know — 
it 's  not  the  same  as  it  was.  I  'm  thinking  of 
going  abroad ;  last  year  I  was  on  the  point  of 
setting  off.' 

*  To  Paris,  I  suppose?'  queried  Bazarov. 
*To  Paris  and  to  Heidelberg,' 

'  Why  to  Heidelberg  ? ' 

'  How  can  you  ask  ?     Why,  Bunsen's  there  I* 

To  this  Bazarov  could  find  no  reply. 

'  Pierre  Sapozhnikov  ...  do  you  know  him  ? ' 

*  No,  I  don't' 

*  Not  know  Pierre  Sapozhnikov  ...  he 's 
always  at  Lidia  Hestatov's.' 

'  I  don't  know  her  either.' 

*Well,  it  was  he  undertook  to  escort  me. 
Thank  God,  I  'm  independent ;  I  've  no  children. 
.  .  .  What  was  that  I  said  :  thank  God !  It's 
no  matter  though.'  fl 

Evdoksya  rolled  a  cigarette  up  between  her 
fingers,  which  were  brown  with  tobacco  stains, 
put  it  to  her  tongue,  licked  it  up,  and  began 
smoking.     The  maid  came  in  with  a  tray. 

*  Ah,    here 's    lunch !      Will     you    have    an 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

appetiser  first  ?    Victor,  open  the  bottle  ;  that 's 
in  your  line.' 

'  Yes,  it 's  in  my  line,'  muttered  Sitnikov,  and 
again  he  gave  vent  to  the  same  convulsive 
laugh. 

*  Are  there  any  pretty  women  here  ? '  inquired 
Bazarov,  as  he  drank  off  a  third  glass. 

'  Yes,  there  are,'  answered  Evdoksya ;  '  but 
they  're  all  such  empty-headed  creatures.  Mon 
amie^  Odintsova,  for  instance,  is  nice-looking. 
It 's  a  pity  her  reputation's  rather  doubtful.  .  .  . 
That  wouldn't  matter,  though,  but  she's  no 
independence  in  her  views,  no  width,  nothing  .  .  . 
of  all  that.  The  whole  system  of  education 
wants  changing.  I  've  thought  a  great  deal 
about  it ;  our  women  are  very  badly  educated.' 

*  There 's  no  doing  anything  with  them,'  put 
in  Sitnikov  ;  *  one  ought  to  despise  them,  and  I 
do  despise  them  fully  and  completely !'  (The 
possibility  of  feeling  and  expressing  contempt 
was  the  most  agreeable  sensation  to  Sitnikov ; 
he  used  to  attack  women  in  especial,  never  sus- 
pecting that  it  was  to  be  his  fate  a  few  months 
later  to  be  cringing  before  his  wife  merely 
because  she  had  been  born  a  princess  Durdo- 
leosov.)  *  Not  a  single  one  of  them  would  be 
capable  of  understanding  our  conversation  ;  not 
a  single  one  deserves  to  be  spoken  of  by  serious 
men  like  us !' 

117 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  But  there 's  not  the  least  need  for  them  to 
understand  our  conversation/  observed  Bazarov. 

*  Whom  do  you  mean  ?'  put  in  Evdoksya. 

*  Pretty  women.' 

'  What  ?  Do  you  adopt  Proudhon's  ideas, 
then?' 

Bazarov  drew  himself  up  haughtily.  *  I  don't 
adopt  any  one's  ideas ;  I  have  my  own.' 

*  Damn  all  authorities  ! '  shouted  Sitnikov, 
delighted  to  have  a  chance  of  expressing  him- 
self boldly  before  the  man  he  slavishly 
admired. 

*  But  even  Macaulay,'  Madame  Kukshin  was 
beginning  .  .  . 

'Damn  Macaulay/ thundered  Sitnikov.  *Are 
you  going  to  stand  up  for  the  silly  hussies  ? ' 

*  For  silly  hussies,  no,  but  for  the  rights  of 
women,  which  I  have  sworn  to  defend  to  the 
last  drop  of  my  blood.' 

*  Damn  ! ' — but  here  Sitnikov  stopped.  *  But 
I  don't  deny  them/  he  said. 

*  No,  I  see  you  're  a  Slavophil.' 

*  No,  I'm  not  a  Slavophil,  though,  of  course  . . .' 

*  No,  no,  no !  You  are  a  Slavophil.  You  're  an 
advocate  of  patriarchal  despotism.  You  want  to 
have  the  whip  in  your  hand  ! ' 

'  A  whip's  an  .excellent  thing,'  remarked 
Bazarov  ;  *  but  we  Ve  got  to  the  last  drop. 

*  Of  what  ? '  interrupted  Evdoksya. 

ii8 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  Of  champagne,  most  honoured  Avdotya 
Nikitishna,  of  champagne  —  not  of  your 
blood.' 

*  I  can  never  h'sten  calmly  when  women 
are  attacked,'  pursued  Evdoksya.  *  It 's  awful, 
awful.  Instead  of  attacking  them,  you  'd  better 
read  Michelet's  book,  De  r amour.  That 's 
exquisite!  Gentlemen,  let  us  talk  of  love,'  added 
Evdoksya,  letting  her  arm  fall  languidly  on  the 
rumpled  sofa  cushion. 

A  sudden  silence  followed.  *  No,  why  should 
we  talk  of  love,'  said  Bazarov  ;  *  but  you  men- 
tioned just  now  a  Madame  Odintsov  .  .  .  That 
was  what  you  called  her,  I  think  ?  Who  is  that 
lady?' 

'  She  's  charming,  charming! '  piped  Sitnikov. 
*  I  will  introduce  you.  Clever,  rich,  a  widow. 
It 's  a  pity,  she 's  not  yet  advanced  enough ;  she 
ought  to  see  more  of  our  Evdoksya.  I  drink  to 
your  health,  Evdoxie  \  Let  us  clink  glasses ! 
Et  toCf  et  toc^  et  tin-tin-tin  !  Et  toe,  et  toc^  et  tin- 
tin- tin  fir 

*  Victor,  you  're  a  wretch.' 

The  lunch  dragged  on   a  long  while.     The 

first   bottle   of   champagne   was    followed    by 

aaother,    a    third,    and    even     a    fourth.  .  .  . 

Evdoksya  chattered  without   pause  ;   Sitnikov 

seconded  her.    They  had  much  discussion  upon 

the  question  whether  marriage  was  a  prejudice 

119 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

or  a  crime,  and  whether  men  were  born  equal 
or  not,  and  precisely  what  individuality  consists 
in.  Things  came  at  last  to  Evdoksya,  flushed 
from  the  wine  she  had  drunk,  tapping  with  her 
flat  finger-tips  on  the  keys  of  a  discordant 
piano,  and  beginning  to  sing  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
first  gipsy  songs,  and  then  Seymour  Schiff' s 
song,  *  Granada  lies  slumbering '  ;  while  Sitni- 
kov  tied  a  scarf  round  his  head,  and  represented 
the  dying  lover  at  the  words — 

•  And  thy  lips  to  mine 
In  burning  kiss  entwine.' 

Arkady  could  not  stand  it  at  last.  *  Gentlemen, 
it 's  getting  something  like  Bedlam,'  he  remarked 
aloud.  Bazarov,  who  had  at  rare  intervals  put 
in  an  ironical  word  in  the  conversation — he 
paid  more  attention  to  the  champagne— gave  a 
loud  yawn,  got  up,  and,  without  taking  leave  of 
their  hostess,  he  walked  off  with  Arkady.  Sitni- 
kov  jumped  up  and  followed  them. 

*Well,  what  do  you  think  of  her?'*  he 
inquired,  skipping  obsequiously  from  right  to 
left  of  them.  *  I  told  you,  you  see,  a  remarkable 
personality  1  If  we  only  had  more  women  like 
that !  She  is,  in  her  own  way,  an  expression  of 
the  highest  morality.' 

*  And  is  that  establishment  of  your  governor's 

an   expression  of  the   highest   morality  too?' 

1 20 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

observed  Bazarov,  pointing  to  a  ginshop  which 
they  were  passing  at  that  instant. 

Sitnikov  again  went  off  into  a  shrill  laugh. 
He  was  greatly  ashamed  of  his  origin,  and  did 
not  know  whether  to  feel  flattered  or  offended 
at  Bazarov'g  unexpected  familiarity. 


A  FEW  days  later  the  ball  at  the  Governor's 
took  place.  Matvy  Ilyitch  was  the  real  '  hero 
of  the  occasion.'  The  marshal  of  nobility 
declared  to  all  and  each  that  he  had  come 
simply  out  of  respect  for  him  ;  while  the  Gover- 
nor, even  at  the  ball,  even  while  he  remained 
perfectly  motionless,  was  still  '  making  arrange- 
ments.' The  affability  of  Matvy  I ly itch's 
demeanour  could  only  be  equalled  by  its 
dignity.  He  was  gracious  to  all,  to  some  with 
a  shade  of  disgust,  to  others  with  a  shade  of 
respect ;  he  was  all  bows  and  smiles  '  en  vrai 
chevalier  franqais^  before  the  ladies,  and  was 
continually  giving  vent  to  a  hearty,  sonorous, 
unshared  laugh,  such  as  befits  a  high  official. 
He  slapped  Arkady  on  the  back,  and  called 
him  loudly  '  nephew  * ;  vouchsafed  Bazarov — 
who  was  attired  in  a  rather  old  evening  coat — 
a  sidelong  glance  in  passing — absent  but  con- 
descending— and  an  indistinct  but  affable  grunt, 
in  which  nothing   could  be  distinguished  but 

122 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  I  .  .  .'  and  *  very  much ' ;  gave  Sitnikov  a 
finger  and  a  smile,  though  with  his  head  already 
averted  ;  even  to  Madame  Kukshin,  who  made 
her  appearance  at  the  ball  with  dirty  gloves,  no 
crinoline,  and  a  bird  of  Paradise  in  her  hair,  he 
said  ^  enchant^  There  were  crowds  of  people, 
and  no  lack  of  dancing  men  ;  the  civilians  were 
for  the  most  part  standing  close  along  the  walls, 
but  the  officers  danced  assiduously,  especially 
one  of  them  who  had  spent  six  weeks  in  Paris, 
where  he  had  mastered  various  daring  interjec- 
tions of  the  kind  of — '  zutl  '  Ah,  fichtr-rel  ' pst, 
pst,  mon  bibil  and  such.  He  pronounced  them 
to  perfection  with  genuine  Parisian  chic,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  said  '  si  faurais '  for  '  st 
/'avais'  ^  absolmnenf  in  the  sense  of  'absolutely,' 
expressed  himself,  in  fact,  in  that  Great  Russo- 
French  jargon  which  the  French  ridicule  so 
when  they  have  no  reason  for  assuring  us  that 
we  speak  French  like  angels,  '  comme  des 
anges! 

Arkady,  as  we  are  aware,  danced  badly,  while 
Bazarov  did  not  dance  at  all  ;  they  both  took 
up  their  position  in  a  corner ;  Sitnikov  joined 
himself  on  to  them,  with  an  expression  of  con- 
temptuous scorn  on  his  face,  and  giving  vent  to 
spiteful  comments,  he  looked  insolently  about 
him,  and  seemed  to  be  really  enjoying  himself. 

Suddenly   his   face    changed,   and    turning   to 

"3 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

Arkady,  he  said,  with  some  show  of  embarrass- 
ment it  seemed,  '  Odintsova  is  here  !  * 

Arkady  looked  round,  and  saw  a  tall  woman 
in  a  black  dress  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
room.  He  was  struck  by  the  dignity  of  her 
carriage.  Her  bare  arms  lay  gracefully  beside 
her  slender  waist  ;  gracefully  some  light  sprays 
of  fuchsia  drooped  from  her  shining  hair  on  to 
her  sloping  shoulders  ;  her  clear  eyes  looked 
out  from  under  a  rather  overhanging  white 
brow,  with  a  tranquil  and  intelligent  expression 
— tranquil  it  was  precisely,  not  pensive — and  on 
her  lips  was  a  scarcely  perceptible  smile.  There 
was  a  kind  of  gracious  and  gentle  force  about 
her  face. 

*  Do  you  know  her  ? '  Arkady  asked  Sitnikov. 

*  Intimately.  Would  you  like  me  to  intro- 
duce you  ? ' 

*  Please  .  .  .  after  this  quadrille.' 
Bazarov's    attention,    too,   was    directed    to 

Madame  Odintsov. 

*  That 's  a  striking  figure,'  he  remarked.  '  Not 
like  the  other  females.' 

After  waiting  till  the  end  of  the  quadrille, 
Sitnikov  led  Arkady  up  to  Madame  Odintsov  ; 
but  he  hardly  seemed  to  be  intimately  acquainted 
with  her  ;  he  was  embarrassed  in  his  sentences, 
while  she  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise. 
But  her  face  assumed  an  expression  of  pleasure 

124 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

when  she  heard  xA.rkady's  surname.  She  asked 
him  whether  he  was  not  the  son  of  Nikolai 
Petrovitch. 

'  Yes.' 

'  I  have  seen  your  father  twice,  and  have 
heard  a  great  deal  about  him/  she  went  on  ;  '  I 
am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance.' 

At  that  instant  some  adjutant  flew  up  to  her 
and  begged  for  a  quadrille.     She  consented. 

*  Do  you  dance  then  ? '  asked  Arkady  respect- 
fully. 

*  Yes,  I  dance.  Why  do  you  suppose  I  don't 
dance  ?     Do  you  think  I  am  too  old  ? ' 

*  Really,  how  could  I  possibly.  .  .  .  But  in 
that  case,  let  me  ask  you  for  a  mazurka.' 

Madame  Odintsov  smiled  graciously.  *  Cer- 
tainly,' she  said,  and  she  looked  at  Arkady, 
not  exactly  with  an  air  of  superiority,  but  as 
married  sisters  look  at  very  young  brothers, 
Madame  Odintsov  was  a  little  older  than 
Arkady  —  she  was  twenty-nine  —  but  in  her 
presence  he  felt  himself  a  schoolboy,  a  little 
student,  so  that  the  difference  in  age  between 
them  seemed  of  more  consequence.  Matvy 
Ilyitch  approached  her  with  a  majestic  air  and 
ingratiating  speeches.  Arkady  moved  away, 
but  he  still  watched  her  ;  he  could  not  take  his 
eyes  off  her  even  during  the  quadrille.  She 
talked  with  equal  ease  to  her  partner  and  to 

12; 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

the  grand  official,  softly  turned  her  head  and 
eyes,  and  twice  laughed  softly.  Her  nose — like 
almost  all  Russian  noses — was  a  little  thick ; 
and  her  complexion  was  not  perfectly  clear ; 
Arkady  made  up  his  mind,  for  all  that,  that  he 
had  never  before  met  such  an  attractive  woman. 
He  could  not  get  the  sound  of  her  voice  out  of 
his  ears  ;  the  very  folds  of  her  dress  seemed  to 
hang  upon  her  differently  from  all  the  rest — 
more  gracefully  and  amply — and  her  move- 
ments were  distinguished  by  a  peculiar  smooth- 
ness and  naturalness. 

Arkady  felt  some  timidity  in  his  heart  when 
at  the  first  sounds  of  the  mazurka  he  began  to 
sit  it  out  beside  his  partner  ;  he  had  prepared 
to  enter  into  a  conversation  with  her,  but  he 
only  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair,  and 
could  not  find  a  single  word  to  say.  But  his 
timidity  and  agitation  did  not  last  long ; 
Madame  Odintsov's  tranquillity  gained  upon 
him  too  ;  before  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had 
passed  he  was  telling  her  freely  about  his 
father,  his  uncle,  his  life  in  Petersburg  and  in 
the  country.  Madame  Odintsov  listened  to 
him  with  courteous  sympathy,  slightly  opening 
and  closing  her  fan  ;  his  talk  was  broken  off 
when  partners  came  for  her ;  Sitnikov,  among 
others,  twice  asked  her.     She  came  back,  sat 

down  again,  took  up  her  fan,  and  her  bosom 

126 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

did  not  even  heave  more  rapidly,  while  Arkady 
fell  to  chattering  again,  filled  through  and 
through  by  the  happiness  of  being  near  her, 
talking  to  her,  looking  at  her  eyes,  her  lovely 
brow,  all  her  sweet,  dignified,  clever  face.  She 
said  little,  but  her  words  showed  a  knowledge 
of  life  ;  from  some  of  her  observations,  Arkady 
gathered  that  this  young  woman  had  already 
felt  and  thought  much.  .  .  . 

*  Who  is  that  you  were  standing  with  ? '  she 
asked  him,  *  when  Mr.  Sitnikov  brought  you  to 
me?' 

*  Did  you  notice  him  ? '  Arkady  asked  in  his 
turn.  *  He  has  a  splendid  face,  hasn't  he  ? 
That 's  Bazarov,  my  friend.' 

Arkady  fell  to  discussing  '  his  friend.'  He 
spoke  of  him  in  such  detail,  and  with  such 
enthusiasm,  that  Madame  Odintsov  turned 
towards  him  and  looked  attentively  at  him. 
Meanwhile,  the  mazurka  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
Arkady  felt  sorry  to  part  from  his  partner  ;  he 
had  spent  nearly  an  hour  so  happily  with  her  ! 
He  had,  it  is  true,  during  the  whole  time  con- 
tinually felt  as  though  she  were  condescending 
to  him,  as  though  he  ought  to  be  grateful  to  her 
.  .  .  but  young  hearts  are  not  weighed  down  by 
that  feeling. 

The  music  stopped.  '  Merci*  said  Madame 
Odintsov,  getting  up.     *  You  promised  to  come 

127 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

and  see  me  ;  bring  your  friend  with  you.  I  shall 
be  very  curious  to  see  the  man  who  has  the 
courage  to  believe  in  nothing.' 

The  Governor  came  up  to  Madame  Odintsov, 
announced  that  supper  was  ready,  and,  with  a 
careworn  face,  offered  her  his  arm.  As  she  went 
away,  she  turned  to  give  a  last  smile  and  bow  to 
Arkady.  He  bowed  low,  looked  after  her  (how 
graceful  her  figure  seemed  to  him,  draped  in  the 
greyish  lustre  of  the  black  silk  !),  and  thinking, 
'This  minute  she  has  forgotten  my  existence,' was 
conscious  of  an  exquisite  humility  in  his  soul. 

'  Well  ? '  Bazarov  questioned  him,  directly  he 
had  gone  back  to  him  in  the  corner.  '  Did  you 
have  a  good  time  ?  A  gentleman  has  just  been 
talking  to  me  about  that  lady  ;  he  said,  "  She  's 
— oh,  fie !  fie ! "  but  I  fancy  the  fellow  was  a 
fool.  What  do  you  think,  what  is  she? — oh, 
fie!  fie!' 

*  I  don't  quite  understand  that  definition/ 
answered  Arkady. 

*  Oh,  my  !     What  innocence  ! ' 

*  In  that  case,  I  don't  understand  the  gentle- 
man you  quote.  Madame  Odintsov  is  very 
sweet,  no  doubt,  but  she  behaves  so  coldly  and 
severely,  that .  ,  .' 

*  Still  waters  .  .  .  you  know  1 '  put  in  Bazarov. 

*  That 's  just  what  gives  it  piquancy.     You  like 

ices,  I  expect?' 

128 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  Perhaps/  muttered  Arkady.  '  I  can't  give 
an  opinion  about  that.  She  wishes  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  and  has  asked  me  to  bring 
you  to  see  her.' 

*  I  can  imagine  how  you  Ve  described  me ! 
But  you  did  very  well.  Take  me.  Whatever 
she  may  be — whether  she's  simply  a  pro- 
vincial lioness,  or  "  advanced  "  after  Kukshina's 
fashion — any  way  she 's  got  a  pair  of  shoulders 
such  as  I  've  not  set  eyes  on  for  a  long  while.' 

Arkady  was  wounded  by  Bazarov's  cynicism, 
but — as  often  happens — he  reproached  his  friend 
not  precisely  for  what  he  did  not  like  in  him  .  .  . 

'  Why  are  you  unwilling  to  allow  freethinking 
in  women  ? '  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

'Because,  my  boy,  as  far  as  my  observations  go, 
the  only  freethinkers  among  women  are  frights.' 

The  conversation  was  cut  short  at  this  point. 

Both  the  young  men  went  away  immediately 

after  supper.    They  were  pursued  by  a  nervously 

malicious,   but   somewhat    faint-hearted   laugh 

from  Madame  Kukshin  ;  her  vanity  had  been 

deeply  wounded  by  neither  of  them  having  paid 

any  attention  to  her.      She  stayed  later  than 

any  one  at  the  ball,  and  at  four  o'clock  in  the 

morning  she  was  dancing  a  polka-mazurka  with 

Sitnikov  in  the  Parisian  style.     This  edifying 

spectacle  was  the  final  event  of  the  Governor's 

ball. 

129  r 


XV 

'  Let  's  see  what  species  of  mammalia  this 
specimen  belongs  to/  Bazarov  said  to  Arkady 
the  following  day,  as  they  mounted  the  stair- 
case of  the  hotel  in  which  Madame  Odintsov 
was  staying.  *  I  scent  out  something  wrong 
here.' 

*  I  'm  surprised  at  you ! '  cried  Arkady.  *  What  ? 
You,  you,  Bazarov,  clinging  to  the  narrow  mor- 
ality, which  .  .  .' 

*  What  a  funny  fellow  you  are  ! '  Bazarov  cut 
him  short,  carelessly.  '  Don't  you  know  that 
"something  wrong"  means  "something  right" 
in  my  dialect  and  for  me  }  It 's  an  advantage 
for  me,  of  course.  Didn't  you  tell  me  yourself 
this  morning  that  she  made  a  strange  marriage, 
though,  to  my  mind,  to  marry  a  rich  old  man  is 
by  no  means  a  strange  thing  to  do,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  very  sensible.  I  don't  believe  the 
gossip  of  the  town  ;  but  I  should  like  to  think, 
as  our  cultivated  Governor  says,  that  it 's  well- 
grounded.* 

130 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Arkady  made  no  answer,  and  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  apartments.  A  young  servant  in 
livery  conducted  the  two  friends  into  a  large 
room,  badly  furnished,  like  all  rooms  in  Russian 
hotels,  but  filled  with  flowers.  Soon  Madame 
Odint^ov  herself  appeared  in  a  simple  morning 
dress.  J>he  seemed  still  younger  by  the  light  of 
the  spring  sunshine.  Arkady  presented  Bazarov, 
and  noticed  with  secret  amazement  that  he 
seemed  embarrassed,  while  Madame  Odintsov 
remained  perfectly  tranquil,  as  she  had  been  the 
previous  day.  Bazarov  himself  was  conscio  s 
of  being  embarrassed,  and  was  irritated  by  it. 
'  Here 's  a  go  ! — frightened  of  a  petticoat !  *  he 
thought,  and  lolling,  quite  like  Sitnikov,  in  an 
easy-chair,  he  began  talking  with  an  exagger- 
ated appearance  of  ease,  while  Madame  Odintsov 
kept  her  clear  eyes  fixed  on  him. 

Anna  Sergyevna  Odintsov  was  the  daughter 
of  Sergay  Nikolaevitch  Loktev,  notorious  for  his 
personal  beauty,  his  speculations,  and  his  gam- 
bling propensities,  who  after  cutting  a  figure  and 
making  a  sensation  for  fifteen  years  in  Petersburg 
and  Moscow,  finished  by  ruining  himself  com- 
pletely at  cards,  and  was  forced  to  retire  to  the 
country,  where,  however,  he  soon  after  died,  leav- 
ing a  very  small  property  to  his  two  daughters 
— Anna,  a  girl  of  twenty,  and  Katya,  a  child  of 

twelve.      Their  mother,  who  came  of  an  im- 

131 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

poverished  line   of  princes — the  H s — had 

died  at  Petersburg  when  her  husband  was  in 
his  heyday.  Anna's  position  after  her  father's 
death  was  very  difficult.  The  brilliant  educa- 
tion she  had  received  in  Petersburg  had  not 
fitted  her  for  putting  up  with  the  cares  of  do- 
mestic life  and  economy, — for  an  obscure  exis- 
tence in  the  country.  She  knew  positively  no 
one  in  the  whole  neighbourhood,  and  there  was 
no  one  she  could  consult.  Her  father  had  tried 
to  avoid  all  contact  with  the  neighbours ;  he 
despised  them  in  his  way,  and  they  despised 
him  in  theirs.  She  did  not  lose  her  head, 
however,  and  promptly  sent  for  a  sister  of 
her    mother's,    Princess    Avdotya    Stepanovna 

H ,  a  spiteful  and   arrogant  old  lady,  who, 

on  installing  herself  in  her  niece's  house,  ap- 
propriated all  the  best  rooms  for  her  own 
use,  scolded  and  grumbled  from  morning  till 
night,  and  would  not  go  a  walk  even  in  the 
garden  unattended  by  her  one  serf,  a  surly  foot- 
man in  a  threadbare  pea-green  livery  with  light 
blue  trimming  and  a  three-cornered  hat.  Anna 
put  up  patiently  with  all  her  aunt's  whims, 
gradually  set  to  work  on  her  sister's  education, 
and  was,  it  seemed,  already  getting  reconciled 
to  the  idea  of  wasting  her  life  in  the  wilds. 
, .  .  But  destiny  had  decreed  another  fate  for  her. 

She  chanced  to  be  seen  by  Odintsov,  a  very 

132 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

wealthy  man  of  forty-six,  an  eccentric  hypo- 
chondriac, stout,  heavy,  and  sour,  but  not 
stupid,  and  not  ill-natured  ;  he  fell  in  love  with 
her,  and  offered  her  his  hand.  She  consented  to 
become  his  wife,  and  he  lived  six  years  with  her, 
and  on  his  death  settled  all  his  property  upon 
her.  Anna  Sergyevna  remained  in  the  country 
for  nearly  a  year  after  his  death  ;  then  she  went 
abroad  with  her  sister,  but  only  stopped  in  Ger- 
many ;  she  got  tired  of  it,  and  came  back  to 
live  at  her  favourite  Nikolskoe,  which  was  nearly 

thirty  miles  from  the  town  of  X .     There 

she  had  a  magnificent,  splendidly  furnished 
house  and  a  beautiful  garden,  with  conserva- 
tories ;  her  late  husband  had  spared  no  ex- 
pense to  gratify  his  fancies.  Anna  Sergyevna 
went  very  rarely  to  the  town,  generally  only  on 
business,  and  even  then  she  did  not  stay  long. 
She  was  not  liked  in  the  province  ;  there  had 
been  a  fearful  outcry  at  her  marriage  with 
Odintsov,  all  sorts  of  fictions  were  told  about 
her ;  it  was  asserted  that  she  had  helped  her 
father  in  his  cardsharping  tricks,  and  even  that 
she  had  gone  abroad  for  excellent  reasons,  that 
it  had  been  necessary  to  conceal  the  lamentable 
consequences  ...  *  You  understand  ? '  the  in- 
dignant gossips  would  wind  up.  '  She  has  gone 
through  the  fire,'  was  said  of  her ;  to  which  a 
noted    provincial    wit    usually    added :    '  And 

133 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

through  all  the  ether  elements  ? '  AH  this  talk 
reached  her ;  but  she  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  it ; 
there  was  much  independence  and  a  good  deal 
of  determination  in  her  character. 

Madame  Odintsov  sat  leaning  back  in  her 
easy-chair,  and  listened  with  folded  hands  to 
Bazarov.  He,  contrary  to  his  habit,  was  talking 
a  good  deal,  and  obviously  trying  to  interest 
her — again  a  surprise  for  Arkady.  He  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  whether  Bazarov  was 
attaining  his  object.  It  was  difficult  to  con- 
jecture from  Anna  Sergyevna's  face  what  im- 
pression was  being  made  on  her  ;  it  retained 
the  same  expression,  gracious  and  refined ; 
her  beautiful  eyes  were  lighted  up  by  attention, 
but  by  quiet  attention.  Bazarov's  bad  manners 
had  impressed  her  unpleasantly  for  the  first 
minutes  of  the  visit  like  a  bad  smell  or  a  dis- 
cordant sound  ;  but  she  saw  at  once  that  he 
was  nervous,  and  that  even  flattered  her.  No- 
thing was  repulsive  to  her  but  vulgarity,  and  no 
one  could  have  accused  Bazarov  of  vulgarity. 
Arkady  was  fated  to  meet  with  surprises  that 
day.  He  had  expected  that  Bazarov  would 
talk  to  a  clever  woman  like  Madame  Odintsov 
about  his  opinions  and  his  views  ;  she  had 
herself  expressed  a  desire  to  listen  to  the 
man  '  who  dares  to  have  no  belief  in  any- 
thing ' ;   but,  instead   of  that,   Bazarov  talked 

13-i 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDRE!-; 

about  medicine,  about  homoeopathy,  and  about 
botany.  It  turned  out  that  Madame  Odintsov 
had  not  wasted  her  time  in  solitude ;  she 
had  read  a  good  many  excellent  books,  and 
spoke  herself  in  excellent  Russian.  She  turned 
the  conversation  upon  music  ;  but  noticing  that 
Bazarov  did  not  appreciate  art,  she  quietly 
brought  it  back  to  botany,  even  though  Arkady 
was  just  launching  into  a  discourse  upon  the 
significance  of  national  melodies.  Madame 
Odintsov  treated  him  as  though  he  were  a 
younger  brother  ;  she  seemed  to  appreciate  his 
good-nature  and  youthful  simplicity — and  that 
was  all.  For  over  three  hours,  a  lively  conver- 
sation was  kept  up,  ranging  freely  over  various 
subjects. 

The  friends  at  last  got  up  and  began  to  take 
leave.  Anna  Sergyevna  looked  cordially  at 
them,  held  out  her  beautiful,  white  hand  to 
both,  and,  after  a  moment's  thought,  said  with 
a  doubtful  but  delightful  smile,  '  If  you  are  not 
afraid  of  being  dull,  gentlemen,  come  and  see 
me  at  Nikolskoe.' 

'  Oh,  Anna  Sergyevna,'  cried  Arkady,  '  I  shall 
think  it  the  greatest  happiness  . .  .* 

*  And  you.  Monsieur  Bazarov  ? ' 

Bazarov  only  bowed,  and  a  last  surprise  was 
in  store  for  Arkady  ;  he  noticed  that  his  friend 
was  blushing, 

13s 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  Well  ? '  he  said  to  him  in  the  street ;  '  are  you 
still  of  the  same  opinion — that  she 's  .  . .' 

*  Who  can  tell  ?  See  how  correct  she  is  ! ' 
retorted  Bazarov ;  and  after  a  brief  pause  he 
added,  *  She 's  a  perfect  grand-duchess,  a  royal 
personage.  She  only  needs  a  train  on  behind, 
and  a  crown  on  her  head.' 

*  Our  grand-duchesses  don't  talk  Russian  like 
that,'  remarked  Arkady. 

'  She's  seen  ups  and  downs,  my  dear  boy  ; 
she 's  known  what  it  is  to  be  hard  up ! ' 

*  Any  way,  she 's  charming/  observed  Ar- 
kady. 

*  What  a  magnificent  body! '  pursued  Bazarov. 
Shouldn't  I  like  to  see  it  on  the  dissecting- 

table.' 

'  Hush,  for  mercy's  sake,  Yevgeny  !  that 's 
beyond  everything.' 

*  Well,  don't  get  angry,  you  baby.  I  meant 
it 's  first-rate.     We  must  go  to  stay  with  her.' 

*When.?' 

'Well,  why  not  the  day  after  to-morrow.  What 
is  there  to  do  here  ?  Drink  champagne  with 
Kukshina.  Listen  to  your  cousin,  the  Liberal 
dignitary  ?  .  .  .  Let 's  be  off  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. By  the  way,  too — my  father's  little 
place  is  not  far  from  there.  This  Nikolskoe  'a 
on  the  S road,  isn't  it  ? ' 

*  Yes.' 

136 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'Oplime,  why  hesitate?    leave  that  to  fools 
and  prigs  !     I  say,  what  a  splendid  body  !' 

Three  days  later  the  two  friends  were  driving 
along  the  road  to  Nikolskoe.  The  day  w^as 
bright,  and  not  too  hot,  and  the  sleek  posting- 
horses  trotted  smartly  along,  switching  their 
tied  and  plaited  tails.  Arkady  looked  at  the 
road,  and  not  knowing  why,  he  smiled. 
''•^  *  Congratulate  me,'  cried  Bazarov  suddenly, 
*  to-day 's  the  22nd  of  June,  my  guardian  angel's 
day.  Let's  see  how  he  will  watch  over  me. 
To-day  they  expect  me  home,'  he  added,  drop- 
ping his  voice.  ...  *  Well,  they  can  go  on  expect- 
ing. .  .  .  What  does  it  matter ! ' 


XVI 


The  country-house  in  which  Anna  Sergyevjpa' 
lived  stood  on  an  exposed  hill  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  a  yellow  stone  church  with  a  green 
roof,  white  columns,  and  a  fresco  over  the  princi- 
pal entrance  representing  the  '  Resurrection  of 
Christ '  in  the  *  Italian  '  style.  Sprawling  in 
the  foreground  of  the  picture  was  a  swarthy 
warrior  in  a  helmet,  specially  conspicuous  for 
his  rotund  contours.  Behind  the  church  a  long 
village  stretched  in  two  rows,  with  chimneys 
peeping  out  here  and  there  above  the  thatched 
roofs.  The  manor-house  was  built  in  the  same 
style  as  the  church,  the  style  known  among  us 
as  that  of  Alexander ;  the  house  too  was 
painted  yellow,  and  had  a  green  roof,  and  white 
columns,  and  a  pediment  with  an  escutcheon  on 
it.  The  architect  had  designed  both  buildings 
with  the  approval  of  the  deceased  Odintsov, 
who  could  not  endure — as  he  expressed  it — idle 
and  arbitrary  innovations.  The  house  was  en- 
closed on  both  sides  by  the  dark  trees  of  an  old 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

garden  ;  an  avenue  of  lopped  pines  lea  up  to  the 
entrance. 

Our  friends  were  met  in  the  hall  by  two  tall 
footmen  in  livery  ;  one  of  them  at  once  ran  for 
the  steward.  The  steward,  a  stout  man  in  a 
black  dress  coat,  promptly  appeared  and  led  the 
visitors  by  a  staircase  covered  with  rugs  to  a 
-^special  room,  in  which  two  bedsteads  were 
already  prepared  for  them  with  all  necessaries 
for  the  toilet.  It  was  clear  that  order  reigned 
supreme  in  the  house  ;  everything  was  clean, 
everywhere  there  was  a  peculiar  delicate  fra- 
grance, just  as  there  is  in  the  reception  rooms 
of  ministers. 

'  Anna  Sergyevna  asks  you  to  come  to  her  in 
half-an-hour,'  the  steward  announced ;  '  will 
there  be  orders  to  give  meanwhile  ?  ' 

*  No  orders,'  answered  Bazarov ;  *  perhaps 
you  will  be  so  good  as  to  trouble  yourself  to 
bring  me  a  glass  of  vodka.' 

*  Yes,  sir/  said  the  steward,  looking  in  some 
perplexity,  and  he  withdrew,  his  boots  creaking 
as  he  walked. 

*  What  grand  genre  ! '  remarked  Bazarov. 
'That's  what  it's  called  in  your  set,  isn't  it? 
She 's  a  grand-duchess,  and  that 's  all  about  it' 

'  A  nice  grand-duchess,'  retorted  Arkady, '  at 

the  very   first  meeting  she  invited  such  great 

aristocrats  as  you  and  me  to  stay  with  her.' 

139 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

•  Especially  me,  a  future  doctor,  and  a  doctor's 
son,  and  a  village  sexton's  grandson.  .  .  .  You 
know,  I  suppose,  I  'm  the  grandson  of  a  sexton  ? 
Like  the  great  Speransky,'  added  Bazarov  after 
a  brief  pause,  contracting  his  lips.  '  At  any  rate 
she  likes  to  be  comfortable  ;  oh,  doesn't  she, 
this  lady  1  Oughtn't  we  to  put  on  evening 
dress?'  ,. 

Arkady  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  .  .  .  h\M^ 
he  too  was  conscious  of  a  little  nervousness. 

Half-an-hour  later  Bazarov  and  Arkady  went 
together  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was  a  large 
lofty  room,  furnished  rather  luxuriously  but 
without  particularly  good  taste.  Heavy,  expen- 
sive furniture  stood  in  the  ordinary  stiff  arrange- 
ment along  the  walls,  which  were  covered  with 
cinnamon-coloured  paper  with  gold  flowers  on  it; 
Odintsov  had  ordered  the  furniture  from  Moscow 
through  a  friend  and  agent  of  his,  a  spirit  mer- 
chant. Over  a  sofa  in  the  centre  of  one  wall 
hung  a  portrait  of  a  faded  light-haired  man — 
and  it  seemed  to  look  with  displeasure  at  the 
visitors.  *  It  must  be  the  late  lamented,' 
Bazarov  whispered  to  Arkady,  and  turning  up 
his  nose,  he  added,  *  Hadn't  we  better  bolt .  .  .  ? ' 
But  at  that  instant  the  lady  of  the  house  entered. 
She  wore  a  light  barege  dress  ;  her  hair  smoothly 
combed  back  behind   her  ears  gave  a  girlish 

expression  to  her  pure  and  fresh  face. 

J  40 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  Thank  you  for  keeping  your  promise,  she 
began.  '  You  must  stay  a  Httle  while  with  me  ; 
it 's  really  not  bad  here.  I  will  introduce  you  to 
my  sister  ;  she  plays  the  piano  well.  That  is  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  you,  Monsieur  Bazarov  ; 
but  you,  I  think,  Monsieur  Kirsanov,  are  fond 
of  music.  Besides  my  sister  I  have  an  old  aunt 
living  with  me,  and  one  of  our  neighbours  comes 
in  sometimes  to  play  cards  ;  that  makes  up  all 
our  circle.     And  now  let  us  sit  down.' 

Madame  Odintsov  delivered  all  this  little 
speech  with  peculiar  precision,  as  though  she 
had  learned  it  by  heart ;  then  she  turned  to 
Arkady.  It  appeared  that  her  mother  had 
known  Arkady's  mother,  and  had  even  been  her 
confidante  in  her  love  for  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 
Arkady  began  talking  with  great  warmth  of  his 
dead  mother  ;  while  Bazarov  fell  to  turning  over 
albums.  *  What  a  tame  cat  I  'm  getting ! '  he  was 
thinking  to  himself 

A  beautiful  greyhound  with  a  blue  collar  on, 
ran  into  the  drawing-room,  tapping  on  the  floor 
with  his  paws,  and  after  him  entered  a  girl  of 
eighteen,  black-haired  and  dark-skinned,  with  a 
rather  round  but  pleasing  face,  and  small  dark 
eyes.  In  her  hands  she  held  a  basket  filled  with 
flowers. 

*  This  is  my  Katya,'  said  Madame  Odintsov, 
indicating   her    with    a    motion    of  her   head. 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Katya  made  a  slight  curtsey,  placed  herself 
beside  her  sister,  and  began  picking  out  flowers. 
The  greyhound,  whose  name  was  Fifi,  went  up  to 
both  of  the  visitors,  in  turn  wagging  his  tail, 
and  thrusting  his  cold  nose  into  their  hands. 

*  Did  you  pick  all  that  yourself?'  asked 
Madame  Odintsov. 

*  Yes,'  answered  Katya. 

*  Is  auntie  coming  to  tea?* 
'  Yes.' 

When  Katya  spoke,  she  had  a  very  charming 
smile,  sweet,  timid,  and  candid,  and  looked  up 
from  under  her  eyebrows  with  a  sort  of  humorous 
severity.  Everything  about  her  was  still  young 
and  undeveloped ;  the  voice,  and  the  bloom  on 
her  whole  face,  and  the  rosy  hands,  with  white 
palms,  and  the  rather  narrow  shoulders.  .  ,  . 
She  was  constantly  blushing  and  getting  out  of 
breath. 

Madame  Odintsov  turned  to  Bazarov.  *  You 
are  looking  at  pictures  from  politeness,  Yevgeny 
Vassilyitch,'  she  began.  *  That  does  not  interest 
you.  You  had  better  come  nearer  to  us,  and  let 
us  have  a  discussion  about  something.' 

Bazarov  went  closer.  *  What  subject  have  you 
decided  upon  for  discussion  ? '  he  said. 

*  What  you  like.     I  warn  you,  I  am  dreadfully 

argumentative.' 

*You?' 

142 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  Yes.     That  seems  to  surprise  you.     Why  ? ' 

'  Because,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  you  have  a 
calm,  cool  character,  and  one  must  be  impulsive 
to  be  argumentative.' 

*  How  can  you  have  had  time  to  understand 
me  so  soon  ?  In  the  first  place,  I  am  impatient 
and  obstinate — you  should  ask  Katya ;  and 
secondly,  I  am  very  easily  carried  away.' 

Bazarov  looked  at  Anna  Sergyevna.  *  Per- 
haps; you  must  know  best.  And  so  you  are  in- 
clined for  a  discussion — by  all  means.  I  was 
looking  through  the  views  of  the  Saxon  moun- 
tains in  your  album,  and  you  remarked  that  that 
couldn't  interest  me.  You  said  so,  because  you 
suppose  me  to  have  no  feeling  for  art,  and  as  a 
fact  I  haven't  any ;  but  these  views  mj^ht  be 
interesting  to  me  from  a  geological  standpoint, 
for  the  formation  of  the  mountains,  for  instance.' 

'  Excuse  me  ;  but  as  a  geologist,  you  would 
sooner  have  recourse  to  a  book,  to  a  special  work 
on  the  subject,  and  not  to  a  drawing.' 

'  The  drawing  shows  me  at  a  glance  what 
would  be  spread  over  ten  pages  in  a  book.' 

Anna  Sergyevna  was  silent  for  a  little. 

*  And  so  you  haven't  the  least  artistic  feeling  ?  ' 
she  observed,  putting  her  elbow  on  the  table, 
and  by  that  very  action  bringing  her  face  nearer 
to  Bazarov.     *  How  can  you  get  on  without  it?' 

'  Why,  what  is  it  wanted  for,  may  I  ask  ? ' 

M3 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  Well,  at  least  to  enable  one  to  study  and 
understand  men.' 

Bazarov  smiled.  *  In  the  first  place,  experi- 
ence of  life  does  that ;  and  in  the  second,  I 
assure  you,  studying  separate  individuals  is  not 
worth  the  trouble.  All  people  are  like  one 
another,  in  soul  as  in  body ;  each  of  us  has 
brain,  spleen,  heart,  and  lungs  made  alike ; 
and  the  so-called  moral  qualities  are  the  same 
in  all ;  the  slight  variations  are  of  no  import- 
ance. A  single  human  specimen  is  sufficient  to 
judge  of  all  by.  People  are  like  trees  in  a 
forest ;  no  botanist  would  think  of  studying  each 
individual  birch-tree.' 

Katya,  who  was  arranging  the  flowers,  one  at 
a  time  in  a  leisurely  fashion,  lifted  her  eyes  to 
Bazarov  with  a  puzzled  look,  and  meeting  his 
rapid  and  careless  glance,  she  crimsoned  up  to 
her  ears.     Anna  Sergyevna  shook  her  head. 

*  The  trees  in  a  forest,'  she  repeated.  '  Then 
according  to  you  there  is  no  difference  between 
the  stupid  and  the  clever  person,  between  the 
good-natured  and  ill-natured  ? ' 

'  No,  there  is  a  difference,  just  as  between 
the  sick  and  the  healthy.  The  lungs  of  a  con- 
sumptive patient  are  not  in  the  same  condition 
as  yours  and  mine,  though  they  are  made  on  the 
same  plan.  We  know  approximately  what 
physical  diseases  come  from ;    moral   diseases 

144 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

come  from  bad  education,  from  all  the  nonsense 
people's  heads  are  stuffed  with  from  childhood 
up,  from  the  defective  state  of  society  ;  in  short, 
reform  society,  and  there  will  be  no  diseases.' 

Bazarov  said  all  this  with  an  air,  as  though  he 
were  all  the  while  thinking  to  himself,  *  Believe 
me  or  not,  as  you  like,  it 's  all  one  to  me  ! '  He 
slowly  passed  his  fingers  over  his  whiskers, 
while  his  eyes  strayed  about  the  room. 

'  And  you  conclude,*  observed  Anna  Serg- 
yevna,  '  that  when  society  is  reformed,  there  will 
be  no  stupid  nor  wicked  people  ? ' 

*  At  any  rate,  in  a  proper  organisation  of 
society,  it  will  be  absolutely  the  same  whether  a 
man  is  stupid  or  clever,  wicked  or  good.' 

'  Yes,  I  understand  ;  they  will  all  have  the 
same  spleen.' 

*  Precisely  so,  madam.* 

Madame  Odintsov  turned  to  Arkady.  *  And 
what  is  your  opinion,  Arkady  Nikolaevitch  ?  ' 

*  I  agree  with  Yevgeny,'  he  answered. 
Katya  looked  up  at  him  from  under  her  eyelids. 

*  You  amaze  me,  gentlemen,'  commented 
Madame  Odintsov,  '  but  we  will  have  more  talk 
together.  But  now  I  hear  my  aunt  coming  in 
to  tea  ;  we  must  spare  her.' 

Anna  Sergyevna's  aunt.  Princess  H ,  a  thin 

little  woman  with  a  pinched-up  face,  drawn  to- 
gether like  a  fist,  and  staring  ill-natured-looking 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

eyes  under  a  grey  front,  came  in,  and,  scarcely 
bowing  to  the  guests,  she  dropped  into  a  wide 
velvet  covered  arm-chair,  upon  which  no  one  but 
herself  was  privileged  to  sit.  Katya  put  a  foot- 
stool under  her  feet ;  the  old  lady  did  not  thank 
her,  did  not  even  look  at  her,  only  her  hands 
shook  under  the  yellow  shawl,  which  almost 
covered  her  feeble  body.  The  Princess  liked 
yellow  ;  her  cap,  too,  had  bright  yellow  ribbons. 

'  How  have  you  slept,  aunt  ?  inquired 
Madame  Odintsov,  raising  her  voice. 

'That  dog  in  here  again,*  the  old  lady 
muttered  in  reply,  and  noticing  Fifi  was  making 
two  hesitating  steps  in  her  direction,  she  cried, 
'Ss  .  .  .  ss!' 

Katya  called  Fifi  and  opened  the  door  for 
him. 

Fifi  rushed  out  delighted,  in  the  expectation 
of  being  taken  out  for  a  walk ;  but  when  he  was 
left  alone  outside  the  door,  he  began  scratching 
and  whining.  The  princess  scowled.  Katya 
was  about  to  go  out  ... 

*  I  expect  tea  is  ready/  said  Madame  Odint- 
sov. 

*  Come,  gentlemen ;  aunt,  will  you  go  in  to 
tea?' 

The  princess  got  up  from  her  chair  without 
speaking  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  drawing- 
room.     They  all  followed  her  into  the  dining- 

146 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

room.  A  little  page  in  livery  drew  back,  with  a 
scraping  sound,  from  the  table,  an  arm-chair 
covered  with  cushions,  devoted  to  the  princess's 
use;  she  sank  into  it ;  Katya  in  pouring  out  the 
tea,  handed  her  first  a  cup  emblazoned  with  a 
heraldic  crest.  The  old  lady  put  some  honey 
in  her  cup  (she  considered  it  both  sinful  and 
extravagant  to  drink  tea  with  sugar  in  it,  though 
she  never  spent  a  farthing  herself  on  anything), 
and  suddenly  asked  in  a  hoarse  voice,  *  And 
what  does  Prince  Ivan  write  ? ' 

No  one  made  her  any  reply.  Bazarov  and 
Arkady  soon  guessed  that  they  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  her  though  they  treated  her  respect- 
fully. 

'  Because  of  her  grand  family,'  thought 
Bazarov.  .  .  . 

After  tea,  Anna  Sergyevna  suggested  they 
should  go  out  for  a  walk ;  but  it  began  to  rain 
a  little,  and  the  whole  party,  with  the  exception 
of  the  princess,  returned  to  the  drawing-room. 
The  neighbour,  the  devoted  card-player,  arrived; 
his  name  was  Porfiry  Platonitch,  a  stoutish, 
greyish  man  with  short,  spindly  legs,  very  polite 
and  ready  to  be  amused.  Anna  Sergyevna, 
who  still  talked  principally  with  Bazarov, 
asked  him  whether  he  'd  like  to  try  a  contest 
with  them  in  the  old-fashioned  way  at  pre- 
ference ?      Bazarov   assented,  saying   '  that   he 

U7 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

ought   to  prepare  himself  beforehand   for   the 
duties  awaiting  him  as  a  country  doctor.' 

*  You  must  be  careful,'  observed  Anna  Serg> 
yevna ;  *  Porfiry  Platonitch  and  I  will  beat  you. 
And  you,  Katya,'  she  added,  'play  something  to 
Arkady  Nikolaevitch ;  he  is  fond  of  music,  and 
we  can  listen,  too.' 

Katya  went  unwillingly  to  the  piano;  and 
Arkady,  though  he  certainly  was  fond  of  music, 
unwillingly  followed  her ;  it  seemed  to  him  that 
Madame  Odintsov  was  sending  him  away,  and 
already,  like  every  young  man  at  his  age, 
he  felt  a  vague  and  oppressive  emotion  surging 
up  in  his  heart,  like  the  forebodings  of  love. 
Katya  raised  the  top  of  the  piano,  and  not 
looking  at  Arkady,  she  said  in  a  low  voice — 

*  What  am  I  to  play  you  ? ' 

'  What  you  like,'  answered  Arkady  indiffer- 
ently. 

'What  sort  of  music  do  you  like  best?'  repeated 
Katya,  without  changing  her  attitude. 

'  Classical/  Arkady  answered  in  the  same 
tone  of  voice. 

'  Do  you  like  Mozart  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  like  Mozart.' 

Katya  pulled  out   Mozart's  Sonata-Fantasia 

in   C   minor.     She   played   very   well,   though 

rather  over  correctly  and   precisely.     She  sat 

upright  and  immovable,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 

148 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

notes,  and  her  lips  tightly  compressed,  only  at 
the  end  of  the  sonata  her  face  glowed,  her  hair 
came  loose,  and  a  little  lock  fell  on  to  her  dark 
brow. 

Arkady  was  particularly  struck  by  the  last 
part  of  the  sonata,  the  part  in  which,  in  the 
midst  of  the  bewitching  gaiety  of  the  careless 
melody,  the  pangs  of  such  mournful,  almost 
tragic  suffering,  suddenly  break  in.  .  .  .  But  the 
ideas  stirred  in  him  by  Mozart's  music  had  no 
reference  to  Katya.  Looking  at  her,  he  simply 
thought,  '  Well,  that  young  lady  doesn't  play 
badly,  and  she  's  not  bad-looking  either.' 

When  she  had  finished  the  sonata,  Katya, 
withouttaking  her  hands  from  the  keys, asked,  'Is 
that  enough  ? '  Arkady  declared  that  he  could 
not  venture  to  trouble  her  again,  and  began  talk- 
ing to  her  about  Mozart ;  he  asked  her  whether 
she  had  chosen  that  sonata  herself,  or  some  one 
had  recommended  it  to  her.  But  Katya  an- 
swered him  in  monosyllables ;  she  withdrew 
into  herself,  went  back  into  her  shell.  When 
this  happened  to  her,  she  did  not  very  quickly 
come  out  again  ;  her  face  even  assumed  at  such 
times  an   obstinate,  almost   stupid  expression.  , 

She  was    not   exactly  shy,  but   diffident;   and  ^''-'^i 
rather  overawed   by  her  sister,  who   had  edu- 
cated her,  and  who  had  no  suspicion  of  the  fact. 
Arkady  was  reduced  at  last  to  calling  Fifi  to 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDRLM 

him,  and  with  an  affable  smile  patting  him  on 
the  head  to  give  himself  an  appearance  of  being 
at  home. 

Katya  set  to  work  again  upon  her  flowers. 

Bazarov  meanwhile  was  losing  and  losing. 
Anna  Sergyevna  played  cards  in  masterly 
fashion ;  Porfiry  Platonitch,  too,  could  hold 
his  own  in  the  game.  Bazarov  lost  a  sum  which, 
though  trifling  in  itself,  was  not  altogether 
pleasant  for  him.  At  supper  Anna  Sergyevna 
again  turned  the  conversation  on  botany. 

*  We  will  go  for  a  walk  to-morrow  morning,'  she 
said  to  him ;  '  I  want  you  to  teach  me  the  Latin 
names  of  the  wild  flowers  and  their  species/ 

*  What  use  are  the  Latin  names  to  you  ?  * 
asked  Bazarov.  ^ 

*  Order  is  needed  in  everything,'  she  an- 
swered. 

*  What  an  exquisite  woman  Anna  Sergyevna 
IS  ! '  cried  Arkady,  when  he  was  alone  with  his 
friend  in  the  room  assigned  to  them. 

*  Yes,'  answered  Bazarov,  '  a  female  with 
brains.     Yes,  and  she  's  seen  life  too.' 

*  In  what  sense  do  you  mean  that,  Yevgeny 
Vassilitch  ? ' 

'In  a  good  sense,  a  good  sense,  my  dear 
friend,  Arkady  Nikolaeitch  !  I  'm  convinced  she 
manages  her  estate  capitally  too.  But  what 's 
splendid  is  not  her,  but  her  sister.' 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDRLN 

'  What,  that  little  dark  thing  ? ' 

*  Yes,  that  little  dark  thing.  She  now  is  fresh 
and  untouched,  and  shy  and  silent,  and  anything 
you  like.  She  's  worth  educating  and  develop- 
ing. You  might  make  something  fine  out  of 
her  ;  but  the  other's — a  stale  loaf.' 

Arkady  made  no  reply  to  Bazarov,  and  each 
of  them  got  into  bed  with  rather  singular 
thoughts  in  his  head. 

Anna  Sergyevna,  too,  thought  of  her  guests 
that  evening.  She  liked  Bazarov  for  the  absence 
of  gallantry  in  him,  and  even  for  his  sharply 
defined  views.  She  found  in  him  something 
new,  which  she  had  not  chanced  to  meet  before, 
and  she  was  curious. 

Anna  Sergyevna  was  a  rather  strange  crea- 
ture. Having  no  prejudices  of  any  kind,  having 
no  strong  convictions  even,  she  never  gave  way 
or  went  out  of  her  way  for  anything.  She  had 
seen  many  things  very  clearly ;  she  had  been 
interested  in  many  things,  but  nothing  had 
completely  satisfied  her ;  indeed,  she  hardly 
desired  complete  satisfaction.  Her  intellect  was 
at  the  same  time  inquiring  and  indifferent ;  her 
doubts  were  never  soothed  to  forgetfulness,  and 
they  never  grew  strong  enough  to  distract  her. 
Had  she  not  been  rich  and  independent,  she 
would  perhaps  have  thrown  herself  into  the 
struggle,  and  have  known  passion.     But  life  was 

151 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

easy  for  her,  though  she  was  bored  at  times,  and 
she  went  on  passing  day  after  day  with  delibera- 
tion, never  in  a  hurry,  placid,  and  only  rarely 
disturbed.  Dreams  sometimes  danced  in  rain- 
bow colours  before  her  eyes  even,  but  she 
breathed  more  freely  when  they  died  away,  and 
did  not  regret  them.  Her  imagination  indeed 
overstepped  the  limits  of  what  is  reckoned  per- 
missible by  conventional  morality  ;  but  even 
then  her  blood  flowed  as  quietly  as  ever  in  her 
fascinatingly  graceful,  tranquil  body.  Some- 
times coming  out  of  her  fragrant  bath  all  w^rm 
and  enervated,  she  would  fall  to  musing  on  the 
nothingness  of  life,  the  sorrow,  the  labour,  the 
malice  of  it.  .  .  Her  soul  would  be  filled  with 
sudden  daring,  and  would  flow  with  generous 
ardour,  but  a  draught  would  blow  from  a  half- 
closed  window,  and  Anna  Sergyevna  would 
shrink  into  herself,  and  feel  plaintive  and  almost 
angry,  and  there  was  only  one  thing  she  cared 
for  at  that  instant — to  get  away  from  that 
horrid  draught. 

Like  all  women  who  have  not  succeeded  in 
loving,  she  wanted  something,  without  herself 
knowing  what.  Strictly  speaking,  she  wanted 
nothing  ;  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  wanted 
everything.  She  could  hardly  endure  the  late 
Odintsov  (she  had  married  him  from  prudential 

motives,  though  probably  she  would  not  have 

152 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

consented  to  become  his  wife  if  she  had  not 
considered  him  a  good  sort  of  man),  and  had 
conceived  a  secret  repugnance  for  all  men, 
whom  she  could  only  figure  to  herself  as 
slovenly,  heavy,  drowsy,  and  feebly  importunate 
creatures.  Once,  somewhere  abroad,  she  had 
met  a  handsome  young  Swede,  with  a  chivalrous 
expression,  with  honest  blue  eyes  under  an  open 
brow ;  he  had  made  a  powerful  impression  on 
her,  but  it  had  not  prevented  her  from  going 
back  to  Russia. 

*  A  strange  man  this  doctor ! '  she  thought  as 
she  lay  in  her  luxurious  bed  on  lace  pillows 
under  a  light  silk  coverlet.  .  .  .  Anna  Serg- 
yevna  had  inherited  from  her  father  a  little  of 
his  inclination  for  splendour.  She  had  fondly 
loved  her  sinful  but  good-natured  father,  and  he 
had  idolised  her,  used  to  joke  with  her  in  a 
friendly  way  as  though  she  were  an  equal,  and 
to  confide  in  her  fully,  to  ask  her  advice.  Her 
mother  she  scarcely  remembered. 

*  This  doctor  is  a  strange  man  ! '  she  repeated 
to  herself  She  stretched,  smiled,  clasped  her 
hands  behind  her  head,  then  ran  her  eyes  over 
two  pages  of  a  stupid  French  novel,  dropped  the 
book — and  fell  asleep,  all  pure  and  cold,  in  her 
pure  and  fragrant  linen. 

The  following  morning  Anna  Sergyevna 
went  off  botanising  with  Bazarov  directly  after 

153 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

lunch,  and  returned  just  before  dinner  ;  Arkady 
did  not  go  off  any  where,  and  spent  about  an  hour 
with  Katya.  He  was  not  bored  with  her;  she 
offered  of  herself  to  repeat  the  sonata  of  the 
day  before ;  but  when  Madame  Odintsov  came 
back  at  last,  when  he  caught  sight  of  her,  he 
felt  an  instantaneous  pang  at  his  heart.  She 
came  through  the  garden  with  a  rather  tired 
step ;  her  cheeks  were  glowing  and  her  eyes 
shining  more  brightly  than  usual  under  her 
round  straw  hat.  She  was  twirling  in  her 
fingers  the  thin  stalk  of  a  wildflower,  a  light 
mantle  had  slipped  down  to  her  elbows,  and  the 
wide  gray  ribbons  of  her  hat  were  clinging  to 
her  bosom.  Bazarov  walked  behind  her,  self- 
confident  and  careless  as  usual,  but  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  cheerful  and  even  friendly  as  it 
was,  did  not  please  Arkady.  Muttering  between 
his  teeth,  'Good-morning!'  Bazarov  went  away 
to  his  room,  while  Madame  Odintsov  shook 
Arkady's  hand  abstractedly,  and  also  walked 
past  him. 

*  Good-morning  ! '  thought  Arkady  ...  *  As 
though  we  had  not  seen  each  other  already 
to-day  r 


ISA 


XVII 

Time,  it  is  well  known,  sometimes  flies  like  a 
bird,  sometimes  crawls  like  a  worm ;  but  man  is 
wont  to  be  particularly  happy  when  he  does  not 
even  notice  whether  it  passes  quickly  or  slowly. 
It  was  in  that  way  Arkady  and  Bazarov  spent 
a  fortnight  at  Madame  Odintsov's.  The  good 
order  she  had  established  in  her  house  and  in 
her  life  partly  contributed  to  this  result.  She 
adhered  strictly  to  this  order  herself,  and  forced 
others  to  submit  to  it.  Everything  during  the 
day  was  done  at  a  fixed  time.  In  the  morning, 
precisely  at  eight  o'clock,  all  the  party  assembled 
for  tea  ;  from  morning-tea  till  lunch-time  every 
one  did  what  he  pleased,  the  hostess  herself 
was  engaged  with  her  bailiff  (the  estate  was  on 
the  rent-system),  her  steward,  and  her  head 
housekeeper.  Before  dinner  the  party  met 
again  for  conversation  or  reading  ;  the  evening 
was  devoted  to  walking,  cards,  and  music  ;  at 
half-past  ten  Anna  Sergyevna  retired  to  her 
own  room,  gave  her  orders  for  the  following  day, 

I5S 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

and  went  to  bed.  Bazarov  did  not  like  this 
measured,  somewhat  ostentatious  punctuaMty 
in  daily  life,  *  like  moving  along  rails,*  he 
pronounced  it  to  be  ;  the  footmen  in  livery, 
the  decorous  stewards,  offended  his  democratic 
sentiments.  He  declared  that  if  one  went  so  far, 
one  might  as  well  dine  in  the  English  style  at 
once — in  tail-coats  and  white  ties.  He  once 
spoke  plainly  upon  the  subject  to  Anna  Serg- 
yevna.  Her  attitude  was  such  that  no  one 
hesitated  to  speak  his  mind  freely  before  her. 
She  heard  him  out  ;  and  then  her  comment 
was,  '  From  your  point  of  view,  you  are  right — 
and  perhaps,  in  that  respect,  I  am  too  much  of  a 
lady ;  but  there 's  no  living  in  the  country  without 
order,  one  would  be  devoured  by  ennui,'  and 
she  continued  to  go  her  own  way.  Bazarov 
grumbled,  but  the  very  reason  life  was  so  easy 
for  him  and  Arkady  at  Madame  Odintsov's  was 
that  everything  in  the  house  *  moved  on  rails.' 
For  all  that,  a  change  had  taken  place  in  both 
the  young  men  since  the  first  days  of  their  stay 
at  Nikolskoe.  Bazarov,  in  whom  Anna  Serg- 
yevna  was  obviously  interested,  though  she 
seldom  agreed  with  him,  began  to  show  signs 
of  an  unrest,  unprecedented  in  him  ;  he  was 
easily  put  out  of  temper,  and  unwilling  to 
talk,  he  looked  irritated,  and  could  not  sit  still 
in  one  place,  just  as  though  he  were  possessed  by 

IS6 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

some  secret  longing  ;  while  Arkady,  who  had 
made  up  his  mind  conclusively  that  he  was  in 
love  with  Madame  Odintsov,  had  begun  to  yield 
to  a  gentle  melancholy.  This  melancholy  did  not, 
however,  prevent  him  from  becoming  friendly 
with  Katya  ;  it  even  impelled  him  to  get  into 
friendly,  affectionate  terms  with  her.  *  She  does 
not  appreciate  me  ?  So  be  it !  .  .  .  But  here  is 
a  good  creature,  who  does  not  repulse  me,'  he 
thought,  and  his  heart  again  knew  the  sweet- 
ness of  magnanimous  emotions.  Katya  vaguely 
realised  that  he  was  seeking  a  sort  of  consola- 
tion in  her  company,  and  did  not  deny  him  or 
herself  the  innocent  pleasure  of  a  half-shy,  half- 
confidential  friendship.  They  did  not  talk  to 
each  other  in  Anna  Sergyevna's  presence ; 
Katya  always  shrank  into  herself  under  her 
sister's  sharp  eyes ;  while  Arkady,  as  befits  a 
man  in  love,  could  pay  attention  to  nothing 
else  when  near  the  object  of  his  passion  ;  but 
he  was  happy  with  Katya  alone.  He  was 
conscious  that  he  did  not  possess  the  power  t 
interest  Madame  Odintsov  ;  he  was  shy  and  at 
a  loss  when  he  was  left  alone  with  her,  and 
she  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him  ,  he  was 
too  young  for  her.  With  Katya,  on  the  other 
hand,  Arkady  felt  at  home  ;  he  treated  her  % 
condescendingly,  encouraged  her  to  express  the 
impressions    made   on   her   by  music,   reading 

157 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

novels,  verses,  and  other  such  trifles,  without 
noticing  or  realising  that  these  trifles  were  what 
interested  him  too.  Katya,  on  her  side,  did 
not  try  to  drive  away  melancholy.  Arkady  was 
at  his  ease  with  Katya,  Madame  Odintsov  with 
Bazarov,  and  thus  it  usually  came  to  pass  that 
the  two  couples,  after  being  a  little  while 
together,  went  off  on  their  separate  ways, 
especially  during  the  walks.  Katya  adored 
nature,  and  Arkady  loved  it,  though  he  did  not 
dare  to  acknowledge  it ;  Madame  Odintsov  was, 
like  Bazarov,  rather  indifferent  to  the  beauties 
of  nature.  The  almost  continual  separation  of 
the  two  friends  was  not  without  its  conse- 
quences ;  the  relations  between  them  began  to 
change.  Bazarov  gave  up  talking  to  Arkady 
about  Madame  Odintsov,  gave  up  even  abusing 
her  *  aristocratic  ways ' ;  Katya,  it  is  true,  he 
praised  as  before,  and  only  advised  him  to 
restrain  her  sentimental  tendencies,  but  his 
praises  were  hurried,  his  advice  dry,  and  in 
general  he  talked  less  to  Arkady  than  before 
...  he  seemed  to  avoid  him,  seemed  ill  at  ease 
with  him. 

Arkady  observed  it  all,  but  he  kept  his 
observations  to  himself. 

The  real  cause  of  all  this  '  newness '  was  the 
feeling  inspired  in  Bazarov  by  Madame  Odint- 
sov, a  feeling  which  tortured   and   maddened 

T«:8 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

him,  and  which  he  would  at  once  have  denied, 
with  scornful  laughter  and  cynical  abuse,  if 
any  one  had  ever  so  remotely  hinted  at  the 
possibility  of  what  was  taking  place  in  him. 
|Bazarov  had  a  great  love  for  women  and  for 
feminine  beauty ;  but  love  in  the  ideal,  or,  as  he 
expressed  it,  romantic  sense,  he  called  lunacy, 
unpardonable  imbecility;  he  regarded  chivalrous 
sentiments  as  something  of  the  nature  of 
deformity  or  disease,  and  had  more  than  once 
expressed  his  wonder  that  Toggenburg  and  all 
the  minnesingers  and  troubadours  had  not  been 
put  into  a  lunatic  asylum.  '  If  a  woman  takes 
your  fancy,'  he  used  to  say,  *  try  and  gain 
your  end  ;  but  if  you  can't — well,  turn  your 
back  on  her — there  are  lots  of  good  fish  in 
the  sea.'  Madame  Odintsov  had  taken  his 
fancy  ;  the  rumours  about  her,  the  freedom  and 
independence  of  her  ideas,  her  unmistakable 
liking  for  him,  all  seemed  to  be  in  his  favour, 
but  he  soon  saw  that  with  her  he  would  not 
*  gain  his  ends,'  and  to  turn  his  back  on  her  he 
found,  to  his  own  bewilderment,  beyond  his 
power.  His  blood  was  on  fire  directly  if  he  merely 
thought  of  her  ;  he  could  easily  have  mastered 
his  blood,  but  something  else  was  taking  root 
in  him,  something  he  had  never  admitted,  at 
which  he  had  always  jeered,  at  which  all  his 
pride    revolted      lo     his     conversations    with 

•S9 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Anna  Serg\evna  he  expressed  more  strongly 
than  ever  his  calm  contempt  for  everything 
idealistic  ;  but  when  he  was  alone,  with  in- 
dignation he  recognised  idealism  in  himself. 
Then  he  would  set  off  to  the  forest  and  walk 
with  long  strides  about  it,  smashing  the  twigs 
that  came  in  his  way,  and  cursing  under  his 
breath  both  her  and  himself ;  or  he  would  get 
into  the  hay-loft  in  the  barn,  and,  obstinately 
closing  his  eyes,  try  to  force  himself  to  sleep,  in 
which,  of  course,  he  did  not  always  succeed. 
Suddenly  his  fancy  would  bring  before  him 
those  chaste  hands  twining  one  day  about  his 
neck,  those  proud  lips  responding  to  his  kisses, 
those  intellectual  eyes  dwelling  with  tenderness 
— yes,  with  tenderness — on  his,  and  his  head 
went  round,  and  he  forgot  himself  for  an  instant, 
till  indignation  boiled  up  in  him  again.  He 
caught  himself  in  all  sorts  of  '  shameful ' 
thoughts,  as  though  he  were  driven  on  by  a 
devil  mocking  him.  Sometimes  he  fancied  that 
there  was  a  change  taking  place  in  Madame 
Odintsov  too ;  that  there  were  signs  in  the 
expression  of  her  face  of  something  special ; 
that,  perhaps  .  .  .  but  at  that  point  he  would 
stamp,  or  grind  his  teeth,  and  clench  his  fists. 

Meanwhile  Bazarov  was  not  altogether  mis- 
taken.     He  had    struck    Madame   Odintsov's 

imagination ;  he  interested  her,  she  thought  a 

i6o 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

great  deal  about  him.  In  his  absence,  she  was 
not  dull,  she  was  not  impatient  for  his  coming, 
but  she  always  grew  more  lively  on  his  appear- 
ance ;  she  liked  to  be  left  alone  with  him,  and 
she  liked  talking  to  him,  even  when  he  irritated 
her  or  offended  her  taste,  her  refined  habits 
She  was,  as  it  were,  eager  at  once  to  sound  him 
and  to  analyse  herself 

One  day  walking  in  the  garden  with  her,  he 
suddenly  announced,  in  a  surly  voice,  that  he 
intended  going  to  his  father's  place  v^ery  soon. 
.  .  .  She  turned  white,  as  though  something 
had  given  her  a  pang,  and  such  a  pang,  that  she 
wondered  and  pondered  long  after,  what  could 
be  the  meaning  of  it.  Bazarov  had  spoken  of 
his  departure  with  no  idea  of  putting  her  to  the 
test,  of  seeing  what  would  come  of  it ;  he  never 
'  fabricated.'  On  the  morning  of  that  day  he 
had  an  interview  with  his  father's  bailiff,  who 
had  taken  care  of  him  when  he  was  a  child, 
Timofeitch.  This  Timofeitch,  a  little  old  man 
of  much  experience  and  astuteness,  with  faded 
yellow  hair,  a  weather-beaten  red  face,  and  tiny 
tear-drops  in  his  shrunken  eyes,  unexpectedly 
appeared  before  Bazarov,  in  his  shortish  over- 
coat of  stout  greyish-blue  cloth,  girt  with  a 
strip  of  leather,  and  in  tarred  boots. 

*  Hullo,    old    man ;    how    are    you  ?  *    cried 

Bazarov. 

i6i  L 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  How  do  you  do,  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch  ? ' 
began  the  little  old  man,  and  he  smiled  with 
delight,  so  that  his  whole  face  was  all  at  once 
covered  with  wrinkles. 

*  What  have  you  come  for  ?     They  sent  f' 
me,  eh  ? ' 

*  Upon  my  word,  sir,  how  could  we  ? '  mumbled 
Timofeitch.  (He  remembered  the  strict  in- 
junctions he  had  received  from  his  m^aster  on 
starting.)  *  We  were  sent  to  the  town  on  busi- 
ness, and  we  'd  heard  news  of  your  honour,  so 
here  we  turned  off  on  our  way,  that 's  to  say — 
to  have  a  look  at  your  honour  ...  as  if  we 
could  think  of  disturbing  you  ! ' 

*  Come,  don't  tell  lies  ! '  Bazarov  cut  him 
short.  '  Is  this  the  road  to  the  town,  do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  ? '  Timofeitch  hesitated,  and 
made  no  answer.     '  Is  my  father  well  ? ' 

*  Thank  God,  yes.' 

*  And  my  mother  ? ' 

*  Anna  Vlasyevna  too,  glory  be  to  God.' 

*  They  are  expecting  me,  I  suppose  ? ' 

The  little  old  man  held  his  tiny  head  on  one 
side. 

*Ah,  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  it  makes  one's  heart 
ache  to  see  them  ;  it  does  really.' 

'  Come,  all  right,  all  right !  shut  up !  Tell 
them  I  'm  coming  soon.' 

*  Yes,  sir,'  answered  Timofeitch,  with  a  sigh. 

162 


i-ATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

As  he  went  out  of  the  house,  he  pulled  his  cap 
down  on  his  head  with  both  hands,  clambered 
into  a  wretched-looking  racing  droshky,  and 
w  nt  off  at  a  trot,  but  not  in  the  direction  of  the 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  Madame 
Odintsov  was  sitting  in  her  own  room  with 
Bazarov,  while  Arkady  walked  up  and  down 
the  hall  listening  to  Katya's  playing.  The 
princess  had  gone  upstairs  to  her  own  room ;  she 
could  not  bear  guests  as  a  rule,  and  '  especially 
this  new  riff-raff  lot,'  as  she  called  them.  In  the 
common  rooms  she  only  sulked  ;  but  she  made 
up  for  it  in  her  own  room  by  breaking  out  into 
such  abuse  before  her  maid  that  the  cap  danced 
on  her  head,  wig  and  all.  Madame  Odintsov 
was  well  aware  of  all  this. 

*  How  is  it  you  are  proposing  to  leave  us  ? ' 
she  began  ;  *  how  about  your  promise  ? ' 

Bazarov  started.     *  What  promise  ?  * 
'  Have  you  forgotten  ?     You  meant  to  give 
me  some  lessons  in  chemistry/ 

*  It   can't   be   helped  !      My   father    expects 

me ;   I  can't  loiter  any  longer.     However,  you 

can  read  Pelouse  et  Frdmy,  Notions  gMrales 

de   Chimie ;    it 's   a    good    book,   and     clearly 

written.      You   will  find  everything  you  need 

in  it.' 

'  But  do  you  remember ;  you  assured  me  a 

163 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

book  cannot  take  the  place  of  .  .  I  Ve  for- 
gotten how  you  put  it,  but  you  know  what  I 
mean  ...  do  you  remember  ?  ' 

*  It  can't  be  helped  ! '  repeated  Bazarov. 

*  Why  go  away  ?  *  said  Madame  Odintsov, 
dropping  her  voice. 

He  glanced  at  her.  Her  head  had  fallen  on 
to  the  back  of  her  easy-chair,  and  her  arms,  bare 
to  the  elbow,  were  folded  on  her  bosom.  She 
seemed  paler  in  the  light  of  the  single  lamp 
covered  with  a  perforated  paper  shade.  An 
ample  white  gown  hid  her  completely  in  its  soft 
folds  ;  even  the  tips  of  her  feet,  also  crossed, 
were  hardly  seen. 

*  And  why  stay  ?  '  answered  Bazarov. 
Madame  Odintsov  turned  her  head  slightly. 

*  You  ask  why.  Have  you  not  enjoyed  yourself 
with  me  ?  Or  do  you  suppose  you  will  not  be 
missed  here  ? ' 

'  I  am  sure  of  it.' 

Madame  Odintsov  was  silent  a  minute.  '  You 
are  wrong  in  thinking  that.  But  I  don't  believe 
you.  You  could  not  say  that  seriously.' 
Bazarov  still  sat  immovable.  '  Yevgeny  Vassil- 
yitch,  why  don't  you  speak  ?  ' 

'  Why,  what  am  I  to  say  to  you  ?  People  are 
not  generally  worth  being  missed,  and  I  less 
than  most.' 

*  Why  so?' 

164 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  I  'm  a  practical,  uninteresting  person.  I  don't 
know  how  to  talk.' 

*  You  are  fishing,  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch.' 

*  That 's  not  a  habit  of  mine.  Don't  you 
know  yourself  that  I  've  nothing  in  common 
with  the  elegant  side  of  life,  the  side  you  prize 
so  much  ? ' 

Madame  Odintsov  bit  the  corner  of  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

*  You  may  think  what  you  like,  but  I  shall  be 
dull  when  you  go  away.' 

'  Arkady  will  remain,'  remarked  Bazarov. 
Madame  Odintsov  shrugged  her  shoulders 
slightly.     *  I  shall  be  dull,'  she  repeated. 

'  Really  ?  In  any  case  you  will  not  feel  dull 
for  long.' 

*  What  makes  you  suppose  that  ?  ' 

*  Because  you  told  me  yourself  that  you  are 
only  dull  when  your  regular  routine  is  broken 
in  upon.  You  have  ordered  your  existence  with 
such  unimpeachable  regularity  that  there  can  be 
no  place  in  it  for  dulness  or  sadness  ...  for  any 
unpleasant  emotions.' 

*  And  do  you  consider  I  am  so  unimpeachable 
.  .  .  that 's  to  say,  that  I  have  ordered  my  life 
with  such  regularity  ?  ' 

'  I  should  think  so.  Here  's  an  example  ;  in 
a  few  minutes  it  will  strike  ten,  and  I  know 
beforehand  that  you  v/ill  drive  me  away.' 

165 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  No  ;  I  'm  not  going  to  drive  you  away,  Yev- 
geny Vassilyitch.  You  may  stay.  Open  that 
window.  ...  I  feel  half-stifled.' 

Bazarov  got  up  and  gave  a  push  to  the 
window.  It  flew  up  with  a  loud  crash.  .  .  .  He 
had  not  expected  it  to  open  so  easily  ;  besides, 
his  hands  were  shaking.  The  soft,  dark  night 
looked  in  to  the  room  with  its  almost  black  sky, 
its  faintly  rustling  trees,  and  the  fresh  fragrance 
of  the  pure  open  air. 

*  Draw  the  blind  and  sit  down,'  said  Madame 
Odintsov  ;  *  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you 
before  you  go  away.  Tell  me  something  about 
yourself;  you  never  talk  about  yourself 

*  I  try  to  talk  to  you  upon  improving  subjects, 
Anna  Sergyevna.' 

*  You  are  very  modest.  .  .  .  But  I  should  like 
to  know  something  about  you,  about  your 
family,  about  your  father,  for  whom  you  are 
forsaking  us.' 

*  Why  is  she  talking  like  that  ? '  thought 
Bazarov. 

*A11  that's  not  in  the  least  interesting,'  he 
uttered  aloud,  'especially  for  you  ;  we  are  obscure 
people.  .  .  .' 

*  And  you  regard  me  as  an  aristocrat  ? ' 
Bazarov  lifted  his  eyes  to  Madame  Odintsov. 

*  Yes,'  he  said,  with  exaggerated  sharpness. 

She  smiled.     *  I  see  you  know  me  very  little, 

i66 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

though  you  do  maintain  that  all  people  are 
alike,  and  it 's  not  worth  while  to  study  them. 
I  will  tell  you  my  life  some  time  or  other  .  .  . 
but  first  you  tell  me  yours.' 

*  I  know  you  very  little/  repeated  Bazarov. 
*  Perhaps  you  are  right ;  perhaps,  really,  every 
one  is  a  riddle.  You,  for  instance ;  you 
avoid  society,  you  are  oppressed  by  it,  and  you 
have  invited  two  students  to  stay  with  you. 
What  makes  you,  with  your  intellect,  with  your 
beauty,  live  in  the  country  ? ' 

'  What  ?  What  was  it  you  said  ?  '  Madame 
Odintsov  interposed  eagerly.  'With  my  .^.  . 
beauty  ? ' 

Bazarov  scowled.  '  Never  mind  that,'  he 
muttered  ;  *  I  meant  to  say  that  I  don't  exactly 
understand  why  you  have  settled  in  the 
country  ? ' 

'  You  don't  understand  it.  .  .  .  But  you 
explain  it  to  yourself  in  some  way  ?  ' 

*  Yes  ...  I  assume  that  you  remain  con- 
tinually in  the  same  place  because  you  in- 
dulge yourself,  because  you  are  very  fond  of 
comfort  and  ease,  and  very  indifferent  to  every- 
thing else.' 

Madame  Odintsov  smiled  again.  *  You  would 
absolutely  refuse  to  believe  that  I  am  capable  of 
being  carried  away  by  anything  ?  ' 

Bazarov  glanced  at  her  from  under  his  brows. 

167 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  By  curiosity,  perhaps  ;  but  not  otherwise.' 

*  Really  ?  Well,  now  I  understand  why  we 
are  such  friends  ;  you  are  just  like  me,  you  see," 

'  We  are  such  friends  .  .  .'  Bazarov  articulated 
in  a  choked  voice. 

'  Yes !  .  .  .  Why,  I  'd  forgotten  you  wanted 
to  go  away.' 

Bazarov  got  up.  The  lamp  burnt  dimly  in 
the  middle  of  the  dark,  luxurious,  isolated  room  ; 
from  time  to  time  the  blind  was  shaken,  and 
there  flowed  in  the  freshness  of  the  insidious 
night ;  there  was  heard  its  mysterious  whisper- 
ings. Madame  Odintsov  did  not  m*ove  in  a 
single  limb ;  but  she  was  gradually  possessed 
by  concealed  emotion. 

It  communicated  itself  to  Bazarov.  He  was 
suddenly  conscious  that  he  was  alone  with  a 
young  and  lovely  woman.  .  .  . 

*  Where  are  you  going  ? '  she  said  slowly. 
He  answered  nothing,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

*  And  so  you  consider  me  a  placid,  pam- 
pered, spoiled  creature,'  she  went  on  in  the  same 
voice,  never  taking  her  eyes  off  the  window. 
*  While  I  know  so  much  about  myself,  that  I  am 
unhappy.' 

'You    unhappy?      What   for?      Surely   you 
can't  attach  any  importance  to  idle  gossip  ? ' 
Madame  Odintsov  frowned.     It  annoyed  her 

that  he  had  given  such  a  meaning  to  her  words. 

i68 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  Such  gossip  does  not  even  affect  me, 
Yevgeny  Vassilyevitch,  and  I  am  too  proud  to 
allow  it  to  disturb  me.  I  am  unhappy  because 
...  I  have  no  desires,  no  passion  for  life.  You 
look  at  me  incredulously ;  you  think  that 's 
said  by  an  "  aristocrat,"  who  is  all  in  lace,  and 
sitting  in  a  velvet  armchair.  I  don't  conceal  the 
fact :  I  love  what  you  call  comfort,  and  at  the 
same  time  I  have  little  desire  to  live.  Explain 
that  contradiction  as  best  you  can.  But  ail 
that 's  romanticism  in  your  eyes.' 

Bazarov  shook  his  head.  '  You  are  in  good 
health,  independent,  rich  ;  what  more  would  you 
have  ?     What  do  you  want  ? ' 

*  What  do  I  want,'  echoed  Madame  Odintsov, 
and  she  sighed.  '  I  am  very  tired,  I  am  old,  I 
feel  as  if  I  have  had  a  very  long  life.  Yes,  I 
am  old,'  she  added,  softly  drawing  the  ends  of 
her  lace  over  her  bare  arms.  Her  eyes  met 
Bazarov's  eyes,  and  she  faintly  blushed.  *  Be- 
hind me  I  have  already  so  many  memories : 
my  life  in  Petersburg,  wealth,  then  poverty,  then 
my  father's  death,  marriage,  then  the  inevitable 
tour  in  due  order.  ...  So  many  memories,  and 
nothing  to  remember,  and  before  me,  before  me 
— a  long,  long  road,  and  no  goal.  ...  I  have 
no  wish  to  go  on.' 

'  Are  you  so  disillusioned  ? '  queried  Bazarov. 

*  r"o,  but  1  am  dissatisfied,'  Madame  Odintsov 

i6q 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

replied,  dwelling  on  each  syllable.  '  I  think  if 
I  could  interest  myself  strongly  in  some- 
thing. .      .' 

*  You  want  to  fall  in  love,'  Bazarov  interrupted 
her,  '  and  you  can 't  love  ;  that 's  where  your 
unhappiness  lies.' 

Madame  Odintsov  began  to  examine  the 
sleeve  of  her  lace. 

*  Is  it  true  I  can  't  love  ? '  she  said. 

*  I  should  say  not !  Only  I  was  wrong  in 
calling  that  an  unhappiness.  On  the  contrary, 
any  one  's  more  to  be  pitied  when  such  a  mis- 
chance befalls  him.' 

'  Mischance,  what  ?  ' 
'  Falling  in  love.' 

*  And  how  do  you  come  to  know  that  ?  ' 

*  By  hearsay,'  answered  Bazarov  angrily. 

*  You  're  flirting,'  he  thought ;  *  you  're  bored, 
and  teasing  me  for  want  of  something  to  do, 
while  I  .  .  .'  His  heart  really  seemed  as  though 
it  were  being  torn  to  pieces. 

'  Besides,  you  are  perhaps  too  exacting,'  he 
said,  bending  his  whole  frame  forward  and  play- 
ing with  the  fringe  of  the  chair. 

*  Perhaps.  My  idea  is  everything  or  nothing. 
A  life  for  a  life.  Take  mine,  give  up  thine,  and 
that  without  regret  or  turning  back.  Or  else 
better  have  nothing.' 

*  Well  ? '     observed     Bazarov  ;    *  that 's     fair 

170 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

terms,  and  I  'm  surprised  that  so  far  you  ,  .  . 
have  not  found  what  you  wanted.' 

'  And  do  you  think  it  would  be  easy  to  give 
oneself  up  wholly  to  anything  whatever  ? ' 

'  Not  easy,  if  you  begin  reflecting,  waiting 
and  attaching  value  to  yourself,  prizing  yourself, 
I  mean  ;  but  to  give  oneself  up  without  reflec- 
tion is  very  easy.' 

*  How  can  one  help  prizing  oneself?  If  I  am 
of  no  value,  who  could  need  my  devotion  ? ' 

*  That 's  not  my  affair  ;  that 's  the  other's 
business  to  discover  what  is  my  value.  The 
chief  thing  is  to  be  able  to  devote  oneself 

Madame  Odintsov  bent  forward  from  the 
back  of  her  chair.  '  You  speak,*  she  began,  *  as 
though  you  had  experienced  all  that.' 

*  It  happened  to  come  up,  Anna  Sergyevna  ; 
all  that,  as  you  know,  is  not  in  my  line.* 

'  But  you  could  devote  yourself? ' 

*  I  don't  know.     I  shouldn't  like  to  boast* 
Madame  Odintsov  said  nothing,  and  Bazarov 

was  mute.  The  sounds  of  the  piano  floated  up 
to  them  from  the  drawing-room. 

*  How  is  it  Katya  is  playing  so  late  ? ' 
observed  Madame  Odintsov. 

Bazarov  got  up.  *  Yes,  it  is  really  late  now  ; 
it 's  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed.' 

*  Wait  a  little  ;  why  are  you  in  a  hurry  ?    .  .  i 

want  to  say  one  word  to  you.' 

171 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  What  is  it  ? ' 

'  Wait  a  little,'  whispered  Madame  Odintsov. 
Her  eyes  rested  on  Bazarov ;  it  seemed  as 
though  she  were  examining  him  attentively. 

He  walked  across  the  room,  then  suddenly 
went  up  to  her,  hurriedly  said  *  Good-bye,' 
squeezed  her  hand  so  that  she  almost  screamed, 
and  was  gone.  She  raised  her  crushed  fingers 
to  her  lips,  breathed  on  them,  and  suddenly,  im- 
pulsively getting  up  from  her  low  chair,  she 
moved  with  rapid  steps  towards  the  door,  as 
though  she  wished  to  bring  Bazarov  back.  .  .  . 
A  maid  came  into  the  room  with  a  decanter  on 
a  silver  tray.  Madame  Odintsov  stood  still,  told 
her  she  could  go,  and  sat  down  again,  and  again 
sank  into  thought.  Her  hair  slipped  loose  and 
fell  in  a  dark  coil  down  her  shoulders.  Long 
after  the  lamp  was  still  burning  in  Anna  Serg- 
yevna's  room,  and  for  long  she  stayed  without 
moving,  only  from  time  to  time  chafing  her 
hands,  which  ached  a  little  from  the  cold  of  the 
night. 

Bazarov  went  back  two  hours  later  to  his  bed- 
room with  his  boots  wet  with  dew,  dishevelled 
and  ill-humoured.  He  found  Arkady  at  the 
writing-table  with  a  book  in  his  hands,  his  coat 
buttoned  up  to  the  throat. 

*  You  *re  not  in  bed  yet  ? '  he  said,  in  a  tone, 
it  seemed,  of  annoyance. 

172 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  You  stopped  a  long  while  with  Anna  Serg- 
yevna  this  evening/  remarked  Arkady,  not 
answering  him. 

*Yes,  I  stopped  with  her  all  the  while  you 
were  playing  the  piano  with  Katya  Sergyevna.* 

'  I  did  not  play  .  .  .'  Arkady  began,  and  he 
stopped.  He  felt  the  tears  were  coming  into 
his  eyes,  and  he  did  not  like  to  cry  before  his 
sarcastic  friend. 


IT3 


XVIII 

The  following  morning  when  Madame  Odintsov 
came  down  to  morning  tea,  Bazarov  sat  a  long 
while  bending  over  his  cup,  then  suddenly  he 
glanced  up  at  her. . . .  She  turned  to  him  as  though 
he  had  struck  her  a  blow,  and  he  fancied  that  her 
face  was  a  little  paler  since  the  night  before. 
She  quickly  went  off  to  her  own  room,  and  did 
not  appear  till  lunch.  It  rained  from  early  morn- 
ing ;  there  was  no  possibility  of  going  for  a 
walk.  The  whole  company  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room.  Arkady  took  up  the  new  num- 
ber of  a  journal  and  began  reading  it  aloud. 
The  princess,  as  was  her  habit,  tried  to  express 
her  amazement  in  her  face,  as  though  he  were 
doing  something  improper,  then  glared  angrily 
at  him  ;  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  her. 

*  Yevgeny  Vassilyevitch,*  said  Anna  Serg- 
yevna,  *  come  to  my  room.  ...  I  want  to  ask 
you.  .  .  .  You  mentioned  a  text-book  yester- 
day .  .  .' 

She  got   up  and   went  to   the  door.     The 

174 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

princess  looked  round  with  an  expression  that 
seemed  to  say,  *  Look  at  me  ;  see  how  shocked 
I  am  ! '  and  again  glared  at  Arkady  ;  but  he 
raised  his  voice,  and  exchanging  glances  with 
Katya,  near  whom  he  was  sitting,  he  went  on 
reading. 

Madame  Odintsov  went  with  rapid  steps  to 
her  study.  Bazarov  followed  her  quickly,  not 
raising  his  eyes,  and  only  with  his  ears  catching 
the  delicate  swish  and  rustle  of  her  silk  gown 
gliding  before  him.  Madame  Odintsov  sank 
into  the  same  easy-chair  in  which  she  had  sat 
the  previous  evening,  and  Bazarov  took  up  the 
same  position  as  before. 

*  What  was  the  name  of  that  book  ? '  she 
began,  after  a  brief  silence. 

'Pelouse  et  Yr^vny^Notionsg^n&ales' 2insv7Qvtd 
Bazarov.  '  I  might  though  recommend  you  also 
Ganot,  Traiti  elhnentaire  de  physique  experimen- 
tale.  In  that  book  the  illustrations  are  clearer, 
and  in  general  it 's  a  text-book.' 

Madame  Odintsov  stretched  out  her  hand. 
'  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I 
didn't  invite  you  in  here  to  discuss  text-books. 
I  wanted  to  continue  our  conversation  of  last 
night.  You  went  away  so  suddenly.  ...  It  will 
not  bore  you    .  .' 

*  I  am  at  your  service,  Anna  Sergyevna.  But 
what  were  we  talking  about  last  night  ? ' 

175 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Madame  Odintsov  flung  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Bazarov. 

*  We  were  talking  of  happiness,  I  believe.  I 
told  you  about  myself.  By  the  way,  I  men- 
tioned the  word  "  happiness."  Tell  me  why  it 
is  that  even  when  we  are  enjoying  music,  for 
instance,  or  a  fine  evening,  or  a  conversation 
with  sympathetic  people,  it  all  seems  an  inti- 
mation of  some  measureless  happiness  existing 
apart  somewhere  rather  than  actual  happi- 
ness— such,  I  mean,  as  we  ourselves  are  in 
possession  of ?  Why  is  it?  Or  perhaps  you 
have  no  feeling  like  that .'' ' 

'  You  know  the  saying,  "  Happiness  is  where 
we  are  not," '  replied  Bazarov  ;  *  besides,  you 
told  me  yesterday  you  are  discontented.  I 
certainly  never  have  such  ideas  come  into  my 
head.' 

*  Perhaps  they  seem  ridiculous  to  you  ?  * 

*  No  ;  but  they  don't  come  into  my  head 

*  Really  ?  Do  you  know,  I  should  very  much 
like  to  know  what  you  do  think  about  ? ' 

*  What  ?     I  don't  understand.' 

*  Listen  ;  I  have  long  wanted  to  speak  openly 
to  you.  There 's  no  need  to  tell  you — you  are 
conscious  of  it  yourself — that  you  are  not  an 
ordinary  man  ;  you  are  still  young — all  life  is 
before  you.  What  are  you  preparing  yourself 
for  ?    What  future  is  awaiting  you  ?    I  mean  to 

176 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

say — what  object  do  you  want  to  attain  ?  What 
are  you  going  forward  to  ?  What  is  in  your 
heart  ?  in  short,  who  are  you  ?  What  are 
you  ? ' 

'  You  surprise  me,  Anna  Sergyevna.  You 
are  aware  that  I  am  studying  natural  science, 
and  who  I  .  .  .' 

'  Well,  who  are  you  ?  ' 

*  I  have  explained  to  you  already  that  I  am 
going  to  be  a  district  doctor/ 

Anna  Sergyevna  made  a  movement  of  im- 
patience. 

*  What  do  you  say  that  for  ?  You  don't 
believe  it  yourself.  Arkady  might  answer  me 
in  that  way,  but  not  you.' 

Why,  in  what  is  Arkady  .  .  .* 

*  Stop !  Is  it  possible  you  could  content 
yourself  with  such  a  humble  career,  and  aren't 
you  always  maintaining  yourself  that  you  don't 
believe  in  medicine  ?  You — with  your  ambition 
— a  district  doctor  !  You  answer  me  like  that 
to  put  me  off,  because  you  have  no  confidence 
in  me.  But,  do  you  know,  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch, 
that  I  could  understand  you  ;  I  have  been  poor 
myself,  and  ambitious,  like  you  ;  I  have  been 
perhaps  through  the  same  trials  as  you.' 

*  That  is  all  very  well,  Anna  Sergyevna,  but 
you  must  pardon  me  for  ...  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  talking  freely  about  myself  at  any  time 

177  M 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

as  a  rule,  and  between  you  and  me  there  is  such 
a  gulf  .  .  .' 

'What  sort  of  gulf?  You  mean  to  tell  me 
again  that  I  am  an  aristocrat  ?  No  more  of  that, 
Yevgeny  Vassilyitch  ;  I  thought  I  had  proved  to 
you  .  .  .' 

'  And  even  apart  from  that,'  broke  in  Bazarov, 
'  what  could  induce  one  to  talk  and  think  about 
the  future,  which  for  the  most  part  does  not 
depend  on  us  ?  If  a  chance  turns  up  of 
doing  something — so  much  the  better  ;  and 
if  it  doesn't  turn  up — at  least  one  will  be 
glad  one  didn't  gossip  idly  about  it  before- 
hand.' 

'  You  call  a  friendly  conversation  idle  gossip  ? 
...  Or  perhaps  you  consider  me  as  a  woman 
unworthy  of  your  confidence  ?  I  know  you 
despise  us  all.' 

*  I  don't  despise  you,  Anna  Sergyevna,  and 
you  know  that.' 

*  No,  I  don't  know  anything  .  .  .  but  let  us 
suppose  so.  I  understand  your  disinclination 
to  talk  of  your  future  career  ;  but  as  to  what  is 
taking  place  within  you  now  .  .  .' 

'  Taking  place  ! '  repeated  Bazarov,  *  as  though 
I  were  some  sort  of  government  or  society  !  In 
any  case,  it  is  utterly  uninteresting  ;  and  besides, 
can  a  man  always   speak  of  everything   that 

*"  takes  place  "  in  him  ?  ' 

178 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  Why,  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  speak  freely 
of  everything  you  have  in  your  heart' 

*  Can  you  ? '  asked  Bazarov. 

*  Yes,'  answered  Anna  Sergyevna,  after  a  brief 
hesitation. 

Bazarov   bowed   his  head.      *  You  are  more 
fortunate  than  I  am.' 

Anna  Sergyevna  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

*  As  you  please,'  she  went  on,  '  but  still  some- 
thing tells  me  that  we  have  not  come  together 
for  nothing  ;  that  we  shall  be  great  friends.  I 
am  sure  this — what  should  I  say,  constraint, 
reticence  in  you  will  vanish  at  last.' 

'  So  you  have  noticed  reticence  ...  as  you 
expressed  it  .  .  .  constraint  ?  * 
'  Yes.' 
Bazarov   got   up   and   went  to  the  window. 

*  And  would  you  like  to  know  the  reason  of  this 
reticence  ?  Would  you  like  to  know  what  is  pass- 
ing within  me } ' 

'  Yes,'  repeated  Madame  Odintsov,  with  a  sort 
of  dread  she  did  not  at  the  time  understand. 

*  And  you  will  not  be  angry  ? ' 
*No.' 

*  No  ? '     Bazarov  was  standing  with  his  back 

to  her.     *  Let  me  tell  you  then  that  I  love  you 

like  a  fool,  like  a  madman.  .  .  .  There,  you  've 

forced  it  out  of  me.' 

Madame  Odintsov  held  both  her  hands  out 

179 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

before  her ;  but  Bazarov  was  leaning  with  his 
forehead  pressed  against  the  window  pane.  He 
breathed  hard  ;  his  whole  body  was  visibly 
trembling.  But  it  was  not  the  tremor  of 
youthful  timidity,  not  the  sweet  alarm  of  the  first 
declaration  that  possessed  him  ;  it  was  passion 
struggling  in  him,  strong  and  painful — passion 
not  unlike  hatred,  and  perhaps  akin  to  it.  .  .  . 
Madame  Odintsov  felt  both  afraid  and  sorry  for 
him. 

'Yevgeny  Vassilyitch!'  she  said,  and  there  was 
the  ring  of  unconscious  tenderness  in  her  voice. 

He  turned  quickly,  flung  a  searching  look  on 
her,  and  snatching  both  her  hands,  he  drew  her 
suddenly  to  his  breast. 

She  did  not  at  once  free  herself  from  his 
embrace,  but  an  instant  later,  she  was  standing 
far  away  in  a  corner,  and  looking  from  there  at 
Bazarov.     He  rushed  at  her  .  .  . 

*  You  have  misunderstood  me,'  she  whispered 
hurriedly,  in  alarm.  It  seemed  if  he  had  made 
another  step  she  would  have  screamed.  .  .  . 
Bazarov  bit  his  lips,  and  went  out. 

Half-an-hour  after,  a  maid  gave  Anna  Serg- 
yevna  a  note  from  Bazarov  ;  it  consisted  simply 
of  one  line  :  '  Am  I  to  go  to-day,  or  can  I  stop 
till  to-morrow  ? ' 

*  Why  should  you  go  ?  I  did  not  understand 
you — you  did  not  understand  me,'  Anna  Serg 


TATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

yevna  answered  him,  but  to  herself  she  thought : 
'  I  did  not  understand  myself  either.' 

She  did  not  show  herself  till  dinner-time,  and 
kept  walking  to  and  fro  in  her  room,  stopping 
sometimes  at  the  window,  sometimes  at  the 
looking-glass,  and- slowly  rubbing  her  handker- 
chief over  her  neck,  on  which  she  still  seemed  to 
feel  a  burning  spot.  She  asked  herself  what 
had  induced  her  to  '  force '  on  Bazarov's  words, 
his  confidence,  and  whether  she  had  suspected 
nothing  .  .  .  '  I  am  to  blame,'  she  decided  aloud, 
'  but  I  could  not  have  foreseen  this.'  She  fell 
to  musing,  and  blushed  crimson,  remembering 
Bazarov's  almost  animal  face  when  he  had 
rushed  at  her.  .  .  . 

'Or?'  she  uttered  suddenly  aloud,  and  she 
stopped  short  and  shook  back  her  curls.  .  .  . 
She  caught  sight  of  herself  in  the  glass  ;  her 
head  thrown  back,  with  a  mysterious  smile  on 
the  half-closed,  half-opened  eyes  and  lips,  told 
her,  it  seemed,  in  a  flash  something  at  which 
she  herself  was  confused.  .  .  . 

*  No,'  she  made  up  her  mind  at  last.  '  God 
knows  what  it  would  lead  to;  he  couldn't  be 
played  with  ;  peace  is  anyway  the  best  thing  in 
the  world.' 

Her  peace  of  mind  was  not  shaken  ;  but  she 
felt  gloomy,  and  even  shed  a  few  tears  once, 
though  she  could  not  have  said  why — certainly 

i8i 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

not  for  the  insult  done  her.  She  did  not  feel 
insulted  ;  she  was  more  inclined  to  feel  guilty. 
Under  the  influence  of  various  vague  emo- 
tions, the  sense  of  life  passing  by,  the  desire  of 
novelty,  she  had  forced  herself  to  go  up  to  a 
certain  point,  forced  herself  to  look  behind  her- 
self, and  had  seen  behind  her  not  even  an  abyss, 
[  but  what  was  empty  ...  or  revolting. 


182 


XIX 

Great  as  was  Madame  Odintsov's  self-control, 
and  superior  as  she  was  to  every  kind  of  preju- 
dice, she  felt  awkward  when  she  went  into  the 
dining-room  to  dinner.  The  meal  went  off 
fairly  successfully,  however.  Porfiry  Platono- 
vitch  made  his  appearance  and  told  various 
anecdotes;  he  had  just  come  back  from  the  town. 
Among  other  things,  he  informed  them  that 
the  governor  had  ordered  his  secretaries  on 
special  commissions  to  wear  spurs,  in  case  he 
might  send  them  off  anywhere  for  greater  speed 
on  horseback.  Arkady  talked  in  an  undertone 
to  Katya,  and  diplomatically  attended  to  the 
princess's  wants.  Bazarov  maintained  a  grim 
and  obstinate  silence.  Madame  Odintsov  looked 
at  him  twice,  not  stealthily,  but  straight  in  the 
face,  which  was  bilious  and  forbidding,  with 
downcast  eyes,  and  contemptuous  determination 
stamped  on  every  feature,  and  thought :  '  No  .  .  . 
no  .  . .  no.'  .  .  .  After  dinner,  she  went  with  the 
whole  company  into  the  garden,  and  seeing  that 

i83 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

Bazarov  wanted  to  speak  to  her,  she  took  a  few 
steps  to  one  side  and  stopped.  He  went  up  to 
her,  but  even  then  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  and 
said  hoarsely — 

'  I  have  to  apologise  to  you,  Anna  Sergyevna= 
You  must  be  in  a  fury  with  me.' 

*  No,  I  'm  not  angry  with  you,  Yevgeny  Vas- 
silyitch,'  answered  Madame  Odintsov  ;  '  but  I 
am  sorry.' 

*  So  much  the  worse.  Any  way,  I  'm  suffi- 
ciently punished.  My  position,  you  will  cer- 
tainly agree,  is  most  foolish.  You  wrote  to  me, 
'  Why  go  away  ? '  But  I  cannot  stay,  and  don't 
wish  to.     To-morrow  I  shall  be  gone.' 

'  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  why  are  you  . ,  .* 
'  Why  am  I  going  away  ?  ' 

*  No  ;  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that' 

*  There 's  no  recalling  the  past,  Anna  Serg- 
yevna  .  .  .  and  this  was  bound  to  come  about 
sooner  or  later.  Consequently  I  must  go.  I  can 
only  conceive  of  one  condition  upon  which  I 
could  remain  ;  but  that  condition  will  nevei 
be.  Excuse  my  impertinence,  but  you  don't 
love  me,  and  you  never  will  love  me,  I  sup- 
pose ? ' 

Bazarov's  eyes  glittered  for  an  instant  under 

their  dark  brows. 

Anna  Sergyevna  did  not  answer  him.     '  I  'm 

afraid  of  this  man/  flashed  through  her  brain. 

184 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

*  Good-bye,  then,'  said  Bazarov,  as  though  he 
guessed  her  thought,  and  he  went  back  into  the 
house. 

Anna  Sergyevna  walked  slowly  after  him, 
and  calling  Katya  to  her,  she  took  her  arm. 
She  did  not  leave  her  side  till  quite  evening. 
She  did  not  play  cards,  and  was  constantly 
laughing,  which  did  not  at  all  accord  with  her 
pale  and  perplexed  face.  Arkady  was  bewil- 
dered, and  looked  on  at  her  as  all  young  people 
look  on — that 's  to  say,  he  was  constantly  ask- 
ing himself,  'What  is  the  meaning  of  that?' 
Bazarov  shut  himself  up  in  his  room  ;  he  came 
back  to  tea,  however.  Anna  Sergyevna  longed 
to  say  some  friendly  word  to  him,  but  she  did 
not  know  how  to  address  him.  .  .  . 

An  unexpected  incident  relieved  her  from 
her  embarrassment ;  a  steward  announced  the 
arrival  of  Sitnikov. 

It  is  difficult  to  do  justice  in  words  to  the 
strange  figure  cut  by  the  young  apostle  of  pro- 
gress as  he  fluttered  into  the  room.  Though, 
with  his  characteristic  impudence,  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  into  the  country  to  visit  a 
woman  whom  he  hardly  knew,  who  had  never 
invited  him  ;  but  with  whom,  according  to  in- 
formation he  had  gathered,  such  talented  and 
intimate  friends  were  staying,  he  was  neverthe- 
less trembling  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones  ;  and 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

instead  of  bringing  out  the  apologies  and  com- 
pliments he  had  learned  by  heart  beforehand, 
he  muttered  some  absurdity  about  Evdoksya 
Kukshin  having  sent  him  to  inquire  after  Anna 
Sergyevna's  health,  and  Arkady  Nicolaevitch's 
too,  having  always  spoken  to  him  in  the  highest 
terms.  ...  At  this  point  he  faltered  and  lost  his 
presence  of  mind  so  completely  that  he  sat  down 
on  his  own  hat.  However,  since  no  one  turned 
him  out,  and  Anna  Sergyevna  even  presented 
him  to  her  aunt  and  her  sister,  he  soon  recovered 
himself  and  began  to  chatter  volubly.  The 
introduction  of  the  commonplace  is  often  an 
ad  vantage  in  life ;  it  relieves  over-strained  tension, 
and  sobers  too  self-confident  or  self-sacrificing 
emotions  by  recalling  its  close  kinship  with  them. 
With  Sitnikov's  appearance  everything  became 
somehow  duller  and  simpler  ;  they  all  even  ate 
a  more  solid  supper,  and  retired  to  bed  half-an- 
hour  earlier  than  usual. 

'  I  might  now  repeat  to  you/  said  Arkady,  as 
he  lay  down  in  bed,  to  Bazarov,  who  was  also 
undressing,  what  you  once  said  to  me,  *  Why  are 
you  so  melancholy  ?  One  would  think  you  had 
fulfilled  some  sacred  duty.'  For  some  time  past 
a  sort  of  pretence  of  free-and-easy  banter  had 
sprung  up  between  the  two  young  men,  which 
is  always  an  unmistakable  sign  of  secret  dis- 
pleasure or  unexpressed  suspicions. 

1 86 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  I  'm  going  to  my  father's  to-morrow/  said 
Bazarov. 

Arkady  raised  himself  and  leaned  on  his 
elbow.  He  felt  both  surprised,  and  for  some 
reason  or  other  pleased.    '  Ah  ! '  he  commented, 

*  and  is  that  why  you  re  sad  ? ' 

Bazarov  yawned.  'You'll  get  old  if  you 
know  too  much.' 

*  And  Anna  Sergyevna  ? '  persisted  Arkady. 

*  What  about  Anna  Sergyevna  ? ' 

*  I  mean,  will  she  let  you  go  ? ' 

*  I  'm  not  her  paid  man.' 

Arkady  grew  thoughtful,  while  Bazarov  lay 
down  and  turned  with  his  face  to  the  wall. 

Some  minutes  went  by  in  silence.  *  Yevgeny?' 
cried  Arkady  suddenly. 

*Well?' 

*  I  will  leave  with  you  to-morrow  too/ 
Bazarov  made  no  answer. 

*  Only   I   will  go  home/  continued  Arkady. 

*  We  will  go  together  as  far  as  Hohlovsky, 
and  there  you  can  get  horses  at  Fedot's.  I 
should  be  delighted  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  your  people,  but  I  'm  afraid  of  being  in  their 
way  and  yours.  You  are  coming  to  us  again 
later,  of  course  ? ' 

*  I  Ve  left  all  my  things  with  you,'  Bazarov 
said,  without  turning  round. 

*  Why  doesn't  he  ask  me  why  I  am  going/ 

j87 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

and  just  as  suddenly  as  he  ? '  thought  Arkady. 
'  In  reality,  why  am  I  going,  and  why  is  he 
going  ? '  he  pursued  his  reflections.  He  could 
find  no  satisfactory  answer  to  his  own  question, 
though  his  heart  was  filled  with  some  bitter 
feeling.  He  felt  it  would  be  hard  to  part  from 
this  life  to  which  he  had  grown  so  accustomed ; 
but  for  him  to  remain  alone  would  be  rather 
odd.  *  Something  has  passed  between  them,'  he 
reasoned  to  himself ;  '  what  good  would  it  be 
for  me  to  hang  on  after  he 's  gone  ?  She 's 
utterly  sick  of  me  ;  I  'm  losing  the  last  that 
remained  to  me.'  He  began  to  imagine  Anna 
Sergyevna  to  himself,  then  other  features  gradu- 
ally eclipsed  the  lovely  image  of  the  young 
widow. 

'  I  'm  sorry  to  lose  Katya  too  ! '  Arkady 
whispered  to  his  pillow,  on  which  a  tear  had 
already  fallen.  .  .  .  All  at  once  he  shook  back 
his  hair  and  said  aloud — 

'  What  the  devil  made  that  fool  of  a  Sitnikov 
turn  up  here  ?  ' 

Bazarov  at  first  stirred  a  little  in  his  bed, 
then  he  uttered  the  following  rejoinder  :  *  You  're 
still  a  fool,  my  boy,  I  see.  Sitnikovs  are  indis- 
pensable to  us.  I — do  you  understand  ?  I  need 
dolts  like  him.  It's  not  for  the  gods  to  bake 
bricks,  in  fact ! '  .  .  . 

*  Oho  ! '  Arkady  thought  to  himself,  and  then 

188 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

in  a  flash  all  the  fathomless  depths  of  Bazarov  s 
conceit  dawned  upon  him.  *  Are  you  and  I 
gods  then  ?  at  least,  you  're  a  god  ;  am  not  I  a 
dolt  then  ? ' 

*  Yes/  repeated  Bazarov  ;  '  you  Ye  still  a  fool.' 
Madame  Odintsov  expressed  no  special  sur- 
prise when  Arkady  told  her  the  next  day  that 
he  was  going  with  Bazarov ;  she  seemed  tired 
and  absorbed.  Katya  looked  at  him  silently 
and  seriously ;  the  princess  went  so  far  as  to 
cross  herself  under  her  shawl  so  that  he  could 
not  help  noticing  it.  Sitnikov,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  completely  disconcerted.  He  had 
only  just  come  in  to  lunch  in  a  new  and  fashion- 
able get-up,  not  on  this  occasion  of  a  Slavophil 
cut ;  the  evening  before  he  had  astonished  the 
man  told  off  to  wait  on  him  by  the  amount  of 
linen  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  now  all  of 
a  sudden  his  comrades  were  deserting  him  ! 
He  took  a  few  tiny  steps,  doubled  back  like  a 
hunted  hare  at  the  edge  of  a  copse,  and  abruptly, 
almost  with  dismay,  almost  with  a  wail,  an- 
nounced that  he  proposed  going  too.  Madame 
Odintsov  did  not  attempt  to  detain  him. 

*  I  have  a  very  comfortable  carriage,'  added 
the  luckless  young  man,  turning  to  Arkady ;  *  I 
can  take  you,  while  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch  can 
take  your  coach,  so  it  will  be  even  more  con- 
venient.' 

189 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  But,  really,  it 's  not  at  all  in  your  way,  and 
it 's  a  long  way  to  my  place.' 

*  That  s  nothing,  nothing  ;  I  've  plenty  of 
time  ;  besides,  I  have  business  in  that  direction.* 

*  Gin-selling  ? '  asked  Arkady,  rather  too  con- 
temptuously. 

But  Sitnikov  was  reduced  to  such  desperation 
that  he  did  not  even  laugh  as  usual.  *  I  assure 
you,  my  carriage  is  exceedingly  comfortable,' 
he  muttered ;  *  and  there  will  be  room  for 
all.' 

'  Don't  wound  Monsieur  Sitnikov  by  a  refusal,' 
commented  Anna  Sergyevna. 

Arkady  glanced  at  her,  and  bowed  his  head 
significantly. 

The  visitors  started  off  after  lunch.  As  she 
said  good-bye  to  Bazarov,  Madame  Odintsov 
held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  said,  *  We  shall 
meet  again,  shan't  we  ? ' 

*  As  you  command,'  answered  Bazarov. 

*  In  that  case,  we  shall.' 

Arkady  was  the  first  to  descend  the  steps  ; 
he  got  into  Sitnikov's  carriage.  A  steward 
tucked  him  in  respectfully,  but  he  could  have 
killed  him  with  pleasure,  or  have  burst  into 
tears.  Bazarov  took  his  seat  in  the  coach. 
When  they  reached  Hohlovsky,  Arkady  waited 
till  Fedot,  the  keeper  of  the  posting-station,  had 
put  in  the  horses,  and  going  up  to  the  coach,  he 

IQO 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

said,  with  his  old  smile,  to  Bazarov,  *  Yevgeny-j 
take  me  with  you  ;  I  want  to  come  to  you.' 

'Get  in,'  Bazarov  brought  out  through  his  teeth. 

Sitnikov,  who  had  been  walking  to  and  fro 
round  the  wheels  of  his  carriage,  whistling 
briskly,  could  only  gape  when  he  heard  these 
words  ;  while  Arkady  coolly  pulled  his  luggage 
out  of  the  carriage,  took  his  seat  beside  Bazarov, 
and  bowing  politely  to  his  former  fellow-traveller, 
he  called,  '  Whip  up  ! '  The  coach  rolled  away, 
and  was  soon  out  of  sight  .  .  .  Sitnikov,  utterly 
confused,  looked  at  his  coachman,  but  the  latter 
was  flicking  his  whip  about  the  tail  of  the  off 
horse.  Then  Sitnikov  jumped  into  the  carriage, 
and  growling  at  two  passing  peasants,  '  Put  on 
your  caps,  idiots  ! '  he  drove  to  the  town,  where 
he  arrived  very  late,  and  where,  next  day,  at 
Madame  Kukshin's,  he  dealt  very  severely  with 
two  '  disgusting  stuck-up  churls.' 

When  he  was  seated  in  the  coach  by  Bazarov, 
Arkady  pressed  his  hand  warmly,  and  for  a 
long  while  he  said  nothing.  It  seemed  as 
though  Bazarov  understood  and  appreciated 
both  the  pressure  and  the  silence.  He  had 
not  slept  all  the  previous  night,  and  had  not 
smoked,  and  had  eaten  scarcely  anything  for 
several  days.  His  profile,  already  thinner,  stood 
out  darkly  and  sharply  under  his  cap,  which  was 
pulled  down  to  his  eyebrows. 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

*  Well,  brother/  he  said  at  last,  '  give  us  a 
cigarette.  But  look,  I  say,  is  my  tongue 
yellow  ? ' 

*  Yes,  it  is,'  answered  Arkady. 

*  Hm  .  .  .  and  the  cigarette 's  tasteless.  The 
machine 's  out  of  gear.' 

*  You  look  changed  lately  certainly,'  observed 
Arkady. 

'  It 's  nothing  !  we  shall  soon  be  all  right 
One  thing 's  a  bother — my  mother 's  so  tender- 
hearted ;  if  you  don't  grow  as  round  as  a  tub, 
and  eat  ten  times  a  day,  she 's  quite  upset.  My 
father 's  all  right,  he  's  known  all  sorts  of  ups 
and  downs  himself.  No,  I  can't  smoke,'  he 
added,  and  he  flung  the  cigarette  into  the  dust 
of  the  road. 

'  Do  you  think  it 's  twenty  miles  ?  *  asked 
Arkady. 

'  Yes.  But  ask  this  sage  here/  He  indicated 
the  peasant  sitting  on  the  box,  a  labourer  of 
Fedot's. 

But  the  sage  only  answered, '  Who 's  to  know 
— miles  hereabout  aren't  measured,'  and  went 
on  swearing  in  an  undertone  at  the  shaft  horse 
for  '  kicking  with  her  head-piece,'  that  is,  shak- 
ing with  her  head  down. 

*  Yes,  yes,'  began  Bazarov  ;  '  it 's  a  lesson  to 
you,  my  young  friend,  an  instructive  example. 
God  knows,  what  rot  it  is  ?     Every  man  hangs 

IQ2 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

on  a  thread,  the  abyss  may  open  under  his  feet 
any  minute,  and  yet  he  must  go  and  invent  all 
sorts  of  discomforts  for  himself,  and  spoil  his 
life.' 

*  What  are  you  alluding  to  ?  '  asked  Arkady. 

*  I  'm  not  alluding  to  anything ;  I  'm  saying 
straight  out  that  we  Ve  both  behaved  like  fools. 
What 's  the  use  of  talking  about  it !  Still,  I  've 
noticed  in  hospital  practice,  the  man  who's 
furious  at  his  illness — he's  sure  to  get  over 
it.' 

*  I  don't  quite  understand  you,'  observed 
Arkady ;  *  I  should  have  thought  you  had 
nothing  to  complain  of.' 

'And  since  you  don't  quite  understand  me, 
I  '11  tell  you  this — to  my  mind,  it 's  better  to 
break  stones  on  the  highroad  than  to  let  a 
woman  have  the  mastery  of  even  the  end 
of  one's  little  finger.  That 'sail  .  .  .'  Bazarov 
was  on  the  point  of  uttering  his  favourite  word, 
'  romanticism,'  but  he  checked  himself,  and  said, 
*  rubbish.  You  don't  believe  me  now,  but  I  tell 
you ;  you  and  I  have  been  in  feminine  society, 
and  very  nice  we  found  it ;  but  to  throw  up 
society  like  that  is  for  all  the  world  like  a  dip 
in  cold  water  on  a  hot  day.  A  man  hasn't 
time  to  attend  to  such  trifles  ;  a  man  ought  not 
to  be  tame,  says  an  excellent  Spanish  proverb. 
Now,  you,  I  suppose,  my  sage  friend,'  he  added, 

193  N 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

turning  to  the  peasant  sitting  on  the  box— 
you  Ve  a  wife  ? ' 

The  peasant  showed  both  the  friends  his 
dull  blear-eyed  face. 

'  A  wife  ?     Yes.     Every  man  has  a  wife.' 

*  Do  you  beat  her  ? ' 

'  My  wife  ?  Everything  happens  sometimes. 
We  don't  beat  her  without  good  reason  !  * 

*  That 's  excellent  Well,  and  does  she  beat 
you?' 

The  peasant  gave  a  tug  at  the  reins.  *  That  *s 
a  strange  thing  to  say,  sir.  You  like  your  joke.' 
.  .  .  He  was  obviously  offended. 

*  You  hear,  Arkady  Nikolaevitch  !  But  we 
have  taken  a  beating  .  .  .  that 's  what  comes  of 
being  educated  people.' 

Arkady  gave  a  forced  laugh,  while  Bazarov 
turned  away,  and  did  not  open  his  mouth  again 
the  whole  journey. 

The  twenty  miles  seemed  to  Arkady  quite 

forty.     But  at  last,  on  the  slope  of  some  rising 

ground,    appeared    the    small     hamlet    where 

Bazarov's  parents  lived.     Beside  it,  in  a  young 

birch  copse,  could  be  seen  a  small  house  with 

a  thatched  roof    Two  peasants  stood  with  their 

hats  on  at  the  first  hut,  abusing  each  other. 

*  You  're  a   great  sow,'  said   one ;   *  and  worse 

than  a  little  sucking  pig.' 

'  And  your  wife 's  a  witch,'  retorted  the  other, 

194 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

'  From  their  unconstrained  behaviour,'  Bazarov 
remarked  to  Arkady,  '  and  the  playfulness  of 
their  retorts,  you  can  guess  that  my  father's 
peasants  are  not  too  much  oppressed.  Why, 
there  he  is  himself  coming  out  on  the  steps  of  his 
house.  They  must  have  heard  the  bells.  It 's 
he  ;  it 's  he — I  know  his  figure.  Ay,  ay  !  how 
grey  he  's  grown  though,  poor  chap  ! ' 


IQ-; 


XX 

Bazarov  leaned  out  of  the  coach,  while 
Arkady  thrust  his  head  out  behind  his  com- 
panion's back,  and  caught  sight  on  the  steps  of' 
the  little  manor-house  of  a  tall,  thinnish  ma  K 
with  dishevelled  hair,  and  a  thin  hawk  nose, 
dressed  in  an  old  military  coat  not  buttoned  up. 
He  was  standing,  his  legs  wide  apart,  smoking 
a  long  pipe  and  screwing  up  his  eyes  to  keep 
the  sun  out  of  them. 

The  horses  stopped. 

*  Arrived  at  last,'  said  Bazarov's  father,  still 
going  on  smoking  though  the  pipe  was  fairly 
dancing  up  and  down  between  his  fingers. 
*  Come,  get  out ;  get  out ;  let  me  hug  you.' 

He  began  embracing  his  son  ...  *  Enyusha, 
Enyusha,'  was  heard  a  trembling  woman's  voice. 
The  door  was  flung  open,  and  in  the  doorway 
was  seen  a  plump,  short,  little  old  woman  in  a 
white  cap  and  a  short  striped  jacket  She 
moaned,  staggered,  and  would  certainly  have 

fallen,  had    not  Bazarov  supported  her.     Her 

iq6 


rii 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

plump  little  hands  were  instantly  twined  round 
his  neck,  her  head  was  pressed  to  his  breast,  and 
there  was  a  complete  hush.  The  only  sound 
heard  was  her  broken  sobs. 

Old  Bazarov  breathed  hard  and  screwed  his 
eyes  up  more  than  ever. 
p.  '  There,  that 's  enough,  that 's  enough,  Arisha ! 
give  over,'  he  said,  exchanging  a  glance  with 
Arkady,  who  remained  motionless  in  the  coach, 
while  the  peasant  on  the  box  even  turned  his 
head  away  ;  *  that 's  not  at  all  necessary,  please 
give  over.' 

'Ah,  Vassily  Ivanitch,'  faltered  the  old  woman, 
*  for  what  ages,  my  dear  one,  my  darling, 
Enyusha,'  .  .  .  and,  not  unclasping  her  hands, 
she  drew  her  wrinkled  face,  wet  with  tears  and 
working  with  tenderness,  a  little  away  from 
Bazarov,  and  gazed  at  him  with  blissful  and 
comic-looking  eyes,  and  again  fell  on  his 
neck. 

*  Well,  well,  to  be  sure,  that 's  all  in  the  nature 
of  things,'  commented  Vassily  Ivanitch,  *  only 
we  'd  better  come  indoors.  Here 's  a  visitor 
come  with  Yevgeny.  You  must  excuse  it,'  he 
added,  turning  to  Arkady,  and  scraping  with 
his  foot ;  *  you  understand,  a  woman's  weakness  ; 
and  well,  a  mother's  heart  .  .  .' 

His  lips  and  eyebrows  too  were  twitching, 
and  his  beard  was  quivering  .  .  .  but  he  was 

197 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

obviously  trying  to  control  himself  and  appear 
almost  indifferent 

*  Let 's  come  in,  mother,  really,'  said  Bazarov, 
and  he  led  the  enfeebled  old  woman  into  the 
house.  Putting  her  into  a  comfortable  arm- 
chair, he  once  more  hurriedly  embraced  his 
father  and  introduced  Arkady  to  him. 

*  Heartily  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,' 
said  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  '  but  you  mustn't 
expect  great  things  ;  everything  here  in  my 
house  is  done  in  a  plain  way,  on  a  military 
footing.  Arina  Vlasyevna,  calm  yourself,  pray; 
what  weakness  !  The  gentleman  our  guest  will 
think  ill  of  you.' 

'  My  dear  sir,'  said  the  old  lady  through  her 
tears,  *your  name  and  your  father's  I  haven't 
the  honour  of  knowing  .  .  .' 

'  Arkady  Nikolaitch,'  put  in  Vassily  Ivanitch 
solemnly,  in  a  low  voice. 

'  You  must  excuse  a  silly  old  woman  like  me/ 
The  old  woman  blew  her  nose,  and  bending  her 
head  to  right  and  to  left,  carefully  wiped  one 
eye  after  the  other.  *  You  must  excuse  me. 
You  see,  I  thought  I  should  die,  that  I  should 
not  live  to  see  my  da  .  .  arling.' 

'  Well,  here  we  have  lived  to  see  him,  madam,* 

put   in    Vassily  Ivanovitch.     *  Tanyushka,'    he 

turned  to  a  bare-legged  little  girl  of  thirteen  in 

a  bright   red   cotton   dress,  who   was   timidly 

198 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

peeping  in  at  the  door,  'bring  your  mistress 
a  glass  of  water — on  a  tray,  do  you  hear  ? — and 
you,  gentlemen,'  he  added,  with  a  kind  of  old- 
fashioned  playfulness,  *  let  me  ask  you  into  the 
study  of  a  retired  old  veteran.' 

*  Just  once  more  let  me  embrace  you,  En- 
yusha,'  moaned  Arina  Vlasyevna.  Bazarov 
bent  down  to  her.  'Why,  what  a  handsome 
fellow  you  have  grown  !  * 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  about  being  handsome,' 
remarked  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  *  but  he  's  a  man 
as  the  saying  is,  omnifay.  And  now  I  hope 
Arina  Vlasyevna,  that  having  satisfied  yout 
maternal  heart,  you  will  turn  your  thoughts  tc 
satisfying  the  appetites  of  our  dear  guests, 
because,  as  you  're  aware,  even  nightingales 
can't  be  fed  on  fairy  tales.' 

The  old  lady  got  up  from  her  chair.  '  This 
minute,  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  the  table  shall  be 
laid.  I  will  run  myself  to  the  kitchen  and  order 
the  samovar  to  be  brought  in ;  everything  shall 
be  ready,  everything.  Why,  I  have  not  seen 
him,  not  given  him  food  or  drink  these  three 
years  ;  is  that  nothing  ? ' 

*  There,  mind,  good  mother,  bustle  about ; 
don't  put  us  to  shame ;  while  you,  gentlemen,  I 
beg  you  to  follow  me.  Here 's  Timofeitch 
come  to  pay  his  respects  to  you,  Yevgeny.    He 

too,  I  daresay,  is  delighted,  the  old  dog.     Eh, 

199 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

aren't  you  delighted,  old  dog  ?  Be  so  good  as 
to  follow  me.' 

And  Vassily  Ivanovitch  went  bustling  for- 
ward, scraping  and  flapping  with  his  slippers 
trodden  down  at  heel. 

His  whole  house  consisted  of  six  tiny  rooms. 
One  of  them — the  one  to  which  he  led  our 
friends — was  called  the  study.  A  thick-legged 
table,  littered  over  with  papers  black  with  the 
accumulation  of  ancient  dust  as  though  they 
had  been  smoked,  occupied  all  the  space  between 
the  two  windows ;  on  the  walls  hung  Turkish 
firearms,  whips,  a  sabre,  two  maps,  some 
anatomical  diagrams,  a  portrait  of  Hoffland,  a 
monogram  woven  in  hair  in  a  blackened  frame, 
and  a  diploma  under  glass  ;  a  leather  sofa,  torn 
and  worn  into  hollows  in  parts,  was  placed  be- 
tween two  huge  cupboards  of  birchwood  ;  on  the 
shelves  books,  boxes,  stuffed  birds,  jars,  and 
phials  were  huddled  together  in  confusion  ;  in 
one  corner  stood  a  broken  galvanic  battery. 

*  I  warned  you,  my  dear  Arkady  Nikolaitch,' 
began  Vassily  Ivan  itch,  *  that  we  live,  so  to  say, 
bivouacking      .  .' 

'  There,  stop  that,  what  are  you  apologising 

for  ?  '   Bazarov  interrupted.     *  Kirsanov   knows 

very  well   we're  not  Croesuses,  and   that  you 

have  no  butler.     Where  are  we  going  to  put 

him,  that 's  the  question  ?  ' 

200 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  To  be  sure,  Yevgeny ;  I  have  a  capital  room 
there  in  the  little  lodge ;  he  will  be  very  com- 
fortable there.' 

'  Have  you  had  a  lodge  put  up  then  ? ' 
'  Why,  where  the  bath-house  is,'  put  in  Timo- 
feitch. 

'  That  is  next  to  the  bathroom,'  Vassily 
Ivanitch  added  hurriedly.  'It's  summer  now 
.  .  .  I  will  run  over  there  at  once,  and  make 
arrangements ;  and  you,  Timofeitch,  mean- 
while bring  in  their  things.  You,  Yevgeny,  I 
shall  of  course  offer  my  study.     Suum  aiique* 

*  There  you  have  him  !  A  comical  old  chap, 
and  very  good-natured,'  remarked  Bazarov, 
directly  Vassily  Ivanitch  had  gone,  '  Just 
such  a  queer  fish  as  yours,  only  in  another 
way.     He  chatters  too  much.' 

'  And  your  mother  seems  an  awfully  nice 
woman,*  observed  Arkady. 

'  Yes,  there 's  no  humbug  about  her.  You  '11 
see  what  a  dinner  she  '11  give  us.' 

'  They  didn't  expect  you  to-day,  sir ;  they  've 
not  brought  any  beef?'  observed  Timofeitch, 
who  was  just  dragging  in  Bazarov's  box. 

*  We  shall  get  on  very  well  without  beef. 
It's  no  use  crying  for  the  moon.  Poverty,  they 
say,  is  no  vice.' 

'  How  many  serfs  has  your  father  ? '  Arkady 
asked  suddenly. 

20I 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

*  The  estate  's  not  his,  but  mother's ;  there  are 
fifteen  serfs,  if  I  remember.' 

*  Twenty-two  in  all,'  Timofeitch  added,  with 
an  air  of  displeasure. 

The  flapping  of  slippers  was  heard,  and 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  reappeared.  *  In  a  few 
minutes  your  room  will  be  ready  to  receive 
you,'  he  cried  triumphantly.  Arkady  .  .  . 
Nikolaitch  ?  I  think  that  is  right  ?  And  here 
is  your  attendant,'  he  added,  indicating  a  short- 
cropped  boy,  who  had  come  in  with  him  in  a 
blue  full-skirted  coat  with  ragged  elbows  and 
a  pair  of  boots  which  did  not  belong  to  him. 
'  His  name  is  Fedka.  Again,  I  repeat,  even 
though  my  son  tells  me  not  to,  you  mustn't 
expect  great  things.  He  knows  how  to  fill  a 
pipe,  though.     You  smoke,  of  course  ? ' 

'  I  generally  smoke  cigars,'  answered  Arkady. 

*  And  you  do  very  sensibly.  I  myself  give 
the  preference  to  cigars,  but  in  these  solitudes 
it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  obtain  them.' 

'  There,  that 's  enough  humble  pie,'  Bazarov 
interrupted  again.  'You'd  much  better  sit  here 
on  the  sofa  and  let  us  have  a  look  at  you.' 

Vassily   Ivanovitch   laughed  and  sat   down. 

He  was  very  like  his  son  in  face,  only  his  brow 

was  lower  and  narrower,  and  his  mouth  rather 

wider,  and  he  was  for  ever  restless,  shrugging  up 

his  shoulder  as  though  his  coat  cut  him  under 

202 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

the  armpits,  blinking,  clearing  his  throat,  and 
gesticulating  with  his  fingers,  while  his  son  was 
distinguished  by  a  kind  of  nonchalant  immo- 
bility. 

*  Humble-pie  ! '  repeated  Vassily  Ivanovitch. 
*  You  must  not  imagine,  Yevgeny,  I  want  to 
appeal,  so  to  speak,  to  our  guest's  sympathies 
by  making  out  we  live  in  such  a  wilderness. 
Quite  the  contrary,  I  maintain  that  for  a 
thinking  man  nothing  is  a  wilderness.  At  least, 
I  try  as  far  as  possible  not  to  get  rusty,  so 
to  speak,  not  to  fall  behind  the  age.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  drew  out  of  his  pocket  a 
new  yellow  silk  handkerchief,  which  he  had  had 
time  to  snatch  up  on  the  way  to  Arkady's  room, 
and  flourishing  it  in  the  air,  he  proceeded  :  '  I 
am  not  now  alluding  to  the  fact  that,  for 
example,  at  the  cost  of  sacrifices  not  inconsider- 
able for  me-,  I  have  put  my  peasants  on  the  rent- 
system  and  given  up  my  land  to  them  on  half 
profits.  I  regarded  that  as  my  duty  ;  common 
sense  itself  enjoins  such  a  proceeding,  though 
other  proprietors  do  not  even  dream  of  it;  I  am 
alluding  to  the  sciences,  to  culture.' 

*  Yes ;  I  see  you  have  here  The  Friend  o) 
Health  for  1855,'  remarked  Bazarov. 

*  It 's  sent    me   by  an   old    comrade   out   of 

friendship,'  Vassily  Ivanovitch  made  haste  to 

answer ;  '  but  we  have,  for  instance,  some  idea 

203 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

even  of  phrenology,'  he  added,  addressing  him- 
self principally,  however,  to  Arkady,  and 
pointing  to  a  small  plaster  head  on  the  cup- 
board, divided  into  numbered  squares ;  *  we  are 
not  unacquainted  even  v/ith  Schenlein  and 
\Rademacher/ 

\    '  Why  do  people  still  believe  in  Rademacher 
in  this  province  ? '  asked  Bazarov. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  cleared  his  throat.  '  In 
this  province.  .  .  .  Of  course,  gentlemen,  you 
know  best ;  how  could  we  keep  pace  with  you  ? 
You  are  here  to  take  our  places.  In  my  day, 
too,  there  was  some  sort  of  a  Humouralist  school, 
Hoffmann,  and  Brown  too  with  his  vitalism — 
they  seemed  very  ridiculous  to  us,  but,  of  course, 
they  too  had  been  great  men  at  one  time  or 
other.  Some  one  new  has  taken  the  place  of 
Rademacher  with  you ;  you  bow  down  to  him, 
but  in  another  twenty  years  it  will  be  his  turn 
to  be  laughed  at.' 

*  For  your  consolation  I  will  tell  you,'  observed 
Bazarov,  *  that  nowadays  we  laugh  at  medicine 
altogether,  and  don't  bow  down  to  any  one.' 

'  How 's  that  ?  Why,  you  're  going  to  be  a 
doctor,  aren't  you  ? ' 

*Yes,  but  the  one  fact  doesn't  prevent  the 
other.' 

Vassily    Ivanovitch   poked   his    third   finger 

into    his    pipe,    where    a     little     smouldering 

204 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

ash  was  still  left  *Well,  perhaps,  perhaps — 
I  am  not  going  to  dispute.  What  am  I  ?  A 
retired  army-doctor,  volla-too ;  now  fate  has 
made  me  take  to  farming.  I  served  in  your 
grandfather's  brigade/  he  addressed  himself 
again  to  Arkady  ;  *  y^s,^  yes,  I  have  seen  many 
sights  in  my  day.  And  I  was  thrown  into  all 
kinds  of  society,  brought  into  contact  with  all 
sorts  of  people !  I  myself,  the  man  you  see 
before  you  now,  have  felt  the  pulse  of  Prince 
Wittgenstein  and  of  Zhukovsky !  They  were 
in  the  southern  army,  in  the  fourteenth,  you 
understand '  (and  here  Vassily  Ivanovitch 
pursed  his  mouth  up  significantly).  'Well, 
well,  but  my  business  was  on  one  side ; 
stick  to  your  lancet,  and  let  everything  else  go 
hang  !  Your  grandfather  was  a  very  honour- 
able man,  a  real  soldier.' 

*  Confess,  now,  he  was  rather  a  blockhead,' 
remarked  Bazarov  lazily. 

*  Ah,  Yevgeny,  how  can  you  use  such  an  ex- 
pression !  Do  consider.  .  .  .  Of  course,  General 
Kirsanov  was  not  one  of  the  .  .  .' 

*  Come,  drop  him,'  broke  in  Bazarov  ;  *  1  was 
pleased  as  I  was  driving  along  here  to  see  your 
birch  copse ;  it  has  shot  up  capitally.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  brightened  up.  *  And  you 
must  see  what  a  little  garden  I  've  got  now  !     I 

planted  every  tree  myself.     I  've  fruit,  and  rasp- 

205 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

berries,  and  all  kinds  of  medicinal  herbs.  How- 
ever clever  you  young  gentlemen  may  be,  old 
Paracelsus  spoke  the  holy  truth :  in  herhis, 
verbis  et  lapidibus.  ...  I  've  retired  from  prac- 
tice, you  know,  of  course,  but  two  or  three  times 
a  week  it  will  happen  that  I  'm  brought  back  to 
my  old  work.  They  come  for  advice — I  can't 
drive  them  away.  Sometimes  the  poor  have 
recourse  to  me  for  help.  And  indeed  there  are 
no  doctors  here  at  all.  There 's  one  of  the 
neighbours  here,  a  retired  major,  only  fancy,  he 
doctors  the  people  too.  I  asked  the  question, 
"  Has  he  studied  medicine  ?  "  And  they  told  me, 
"  No,  he 's  not  studied  ;  he  does  it  more  from 
philanthropy."  .  .  .  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  from  philan- 
thropy !  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha!' 

*  Fedka,  fill  me  a  pipe  ! '  said  Bazarov  rudely. 

*  And  there  's  another  doctor  here  who  just  got 

to  a  patient,'  Vassily  Ivanovitch  persisted  in  a 

kind  of  desperation,  *  when  the  patient  had  gone 

adpatres\  the  servant  didn't  let  the  doctor  speak ; 

you're   no   longer   wanted,   he   told  him.     He 

hadn't  expected  this,  got  confused,  and  asked, 

"Why,    did    your    master    hiccup    before    his 

death?"      "Yes."      "Did   he   hiccup   much?" 

"  Yes."     "  Ah,  well,  that 's  all  right,"  and  off  he 

set  back  again.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! ' 

The   old   man   was    alone   in   his   laughter; 

206 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

Arkady  forced  a  smile  on  his  face.  Bazarov 
simply  stretched.  The  conversation  went  on  in 
this  way  for  about  an  hour ;  Arkady  had  time 
to  go  to  his  room,  which  turned  out  to  be  the 
anteroom  attached  to  the  bathroom,  but  was 
very  snug  and  clean.  At  last  Tanyusha  came 
in  and  announced  that  dinner  was  ready. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  was  the  first  to  get  up. 
*  Come,  gentlemen.  You  must  be  magnani- 
mous and  pardon  me  if  I  've  bored  you.  I 
daresay  my  good  wife  will  give  you  more  satis- 
faction.* 

The  dinner,  though  prepared  in  haste,  turned 
out  to  be  very  good,  even  abundant  ;  only  the 
wine  was  not  quite  up  to  the  mark ;  it  was 
almost  black  sherry,  bought  by  Timofeitch  in 
the  town  at  a  well-known  merchant's,  and  had 
a  faint  coppery,  resinous  taste,  and  the  flies 
were  a  great  nuisance.  On  ordinary  days  a 
serf-boy  used  to  keep  driving  them  away  with 
a  large  green  branch  ;  but  on  this  occasion 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  had  sent  him  away  through 
dread  of  the  criticism  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion. Arina  Vlasyevna  had  had  time  to  dress  ; 
she  had  put  on  a  high  cap  with  silk  ribbons  and 
a  pale  blue  flowered  shawl.  She  broke  down 
again  directly  she  caught  sight  of  her  Enyusha, 
but  her  husband  had  no  need  to  admonish  her ; 

she  made  haste  to  wipe  away  her  tears  her* 

*  207 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

self,  for  fear  of  spotting  her  shawl.  Only  the 
young  men  ate  anything ;  the  master  and  mis- 
tress of  the  house  had  dined  long  ago.  Fedka 
waited  at  table,  obviously  encumbered  by  having 
boots  on  for  the  first  time  ;  he  was  assisted  by 
a  woman  of  a  masculine  cast  of  face  and  one 
eye,  by  name  Anfisushka,  who  performed  the 
duties  of  housekeeper,  poultry-woman,  and 
laundress.  Vassily  Ivanovitch  walked  up  and 
down  during  the  whole  of  dinner,  and  with  a 
perfectly  happy,  positively  beatific  countenance, 
talked  about  the  serious  anxiety  he  felt  at 
Napoleon's  policy,  and  the  intricacy  of  the 
Italian  question.  Arina  Vlasyevna  took  no 
notice  of  Arkady.  She  did  not  press  him  to 
eat ;  leaning  her  round  face,  to  which  the  full 
cherry-coloured  lips  and  the  little  moles  on  the 
cheeks  and  over  the  eyebrows  gave  a  very  simple 
good-natured  expression,  on  her  little  closed  fist, 
she  did  not  take  her  eyes  off  her  son,  and  kept 
constantly  sighing  ,  she  was  dying  to  know  for 
how  long  he  had  come,  but  she  was  afraid  to 
ask  him. 

*  What  if  he  says  for  two  days,'  she  thought, 
and  her  heart  sank.  After  the  roast  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  disappeared  for  an  instant,  and  re- 
turned with  an  opened  half-bottle  of  champagne. 
'  Here,'  he  cried,  '  though  we  do  live  in  the  wilds, 

we  have   something   to   make   merry   with   on 

208 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

festive  occasions  ! '  He  filled  three  champagne 
glasses  and  a  little  wineglass,  proposed  the 
health  of  '  our  inestimable  guests/  and  at  once 
tossed  off  his  glass  in  military  fashion  ;  while  he 
made  Arina  Vlasyevna  drink  her  wineglass  to 
the  last  drop.  When  the  time  came  in  due 
course  for  preserves,  Arkady,  who  could  not 
bear  anything  sweet,  thought  it  his  duty,  how- 
ever, to  taste  four  different  kinds  which  had 
been  freshly  made,  all  the  more  as  Bazarov  flatly 
refused  them  and  began  at  once  smoking  a 
cigarette.  Then  tea  came  on  the  scene  with 
cream,  butter,  and  cracknels;  then  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch  took  them  all  into  the  garden  to  admire 
the  beauty  of  the  evening.  As  they  passed  a 
garden  seat  he  whispered  to  Arkady — 

'  At  this  spot  I  love  to  meditate,  as  I  watch 
the  sunset ;  it  suits  a  recluse  like  me.  And  there, 
a  little  farther  off,  I  have  planted  some  of  the 
trees  beloved  of  Horace.' 

*  What  trees  ? '  asked  Bazarov,  overhearing. 

*  Oh  .  .  .  acacias.' 
Bazarov  began  to  yawn. 

*  I  imagine  it 's  time  our  travellers  were  in 
the  arms  of  Morpheus,'  observed  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch. 

*  That   is,    it 's   time    for    bed,'   Bazarov   put 

in.       *  That 's    a    correct    idea.       It    is    time, 

certainly.' 

309  o 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

As  he  said  good-night  to  his  mother,  he 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  while  she  em- 
braced him,  and  stealthily  behind  his  back  she 
gave  him  her  blessing  three  times.  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  conducted  Arkady  to  his  room,  and 
wished  him  *  as  refreshing  repose  as  I  enjoyed 
at  your  happy  years.'  And  Arkady  did  as  a  fact 
sleep  excellently  in  his  bath-house ;  there  was 
a  smell  of  mint  in  it,  and  two  crickets  behind 
the  stove  rivalled  each  other  in  their  drowsy 
chirping.  Vassily  Ivanovitch  went  from 
Arkady's  room  to  his  study,  and  perching  on 
the  sofa  at  his  son's  feet,  he  was  looking  forward 
to  having  a  chat  with  him  ;  but  Bazarov  at 
once  sent  him  away,  saying  he  was  sleepy,  and 
did  not  fall  asleep  till  morning.  With  wide 
open  eyes  he  stared  vindictively  into  the  dark- 
ness ;  the  memories  of  childhood  had  no  power 
over  him  ;  and  besides,  he  had  not  yet  had  time 
to  get  rid  of  the  impression  of  his  recent  bitter 
emotions.  Arina  Vlasyevna  first  prayed  to  her 
heart's  content,  then  she  had  a  long,  long  con- 
versation with  Annsushka,  who  stood  stock- 
still  before  her  mistress,  and  fixing  her  solitary 
eye  upon  her,  communicated  in  a  mysterious 
whisper  all  her  observations  and  conjectures  in 
regard  to  Yevgeny  Vassilyevitch.  The  old 
lady's  head  was  giddy  with  happiness  and  wine 
and  tobacco  smoke :  her  husband  tried  to  talk 

2IO 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

to  her,  but  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  gave  it  up 
in  despair. 
/  Ar|na  Vlasyevna  was  a  genuine  Russi 
gentlewoman  of  the  olden  times  ;  she  ought  to 
have  lived  two  centuries  before,  in  the  old 
Moscow  days.  She  was  verj'  devout  and 
emotional ;  she  believed  in  fortune  -  telling, 
charms,  dreams,  and  omens  of  every  possible 
kind  ;  she  believed  in  the  prophecies  of  crazy 
people,  in  house-spirits,  in  wood-spirits,  in 
unlucky  meetings,  in  the  evil  eye,  in  popular 
remedies,  she  ate  specially  prepared  salt  on 
Holy  Thursday,  and  believed  that  the  end  of 
the  world  was  at  hand  ;  she  believed  that  if  on 
Easter  Sunday  the  lights  did  not  go  out  at 
vespers,  then  there  would  be  a  good  crop  of 
buckwheat,  and  that  a  mushroom  will  not  grow 
after  it  has  been  looked  on  by  the  eye  of  man  ; 
she  Relieved  that  the  devil  likes  to  be  where 
there  is  water,  and  that  every  Jew  has  a  blood- 
stained patch  on  his  breast ;  she  was  afraid 
of  mice,  of  snakes,  of  frogs,  of  sparrows,  of 
leeches,  of  thunder,  of  cold  water,  of  draughts, 
of  horses,  of  goats,  of  red-haired  people,  and 
black  cats,  and  she  regarded  crickets  and  dogs 
as  unclean  beasts ;  I'she  never  ate  veal,  doves, 
crayfishes,  cheese,  asparagus,  artichokes,  hares, 
nor  water-melons,  because  a  cut  water-melon 
suggested  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist,  and 

211 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

of  oysters  she  could  not  speak  without  a 
shudder ;  she  was  fond  of  eating — and  fasted 
rigidly  ;  she  slept  ten  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 
four — and  never  went  to  bed  at  all  if  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  had  so  much  as  a  headache  ;  she  had 
never  read  a  single  book  except  Alexis  or  the 
Cottage  in  the  Forest  \  she  wrote  one,  or  at  the  most 
two  letters  in  a  year,  but  was  great  in  house- 
wifery, preserving,  and  jam-making,  though 
with  her  own  hands  she  never  touched  a  thing, 
and  was  generally  disinclined  to  move  from  her 
place.  Arina  Vlasyevna  was  very  kindhearted, 
and  in  her  way  not  at  all  stupid.  She  knew 
that  the  world  is  divided  into  masters  whose 
duty  it  is  to  command,  and  simple  folk  whose 
duty  it  is  to  serve  them — and  so  she  felt  no 
repugnance  to  servility  and  prostrations  to  the 
ground  ;  but  she  treated  those  in  subjection  to 
her  kindly  and  gently,  never  let  a  single  beggar 
go  away  empty-handed,  and  never  spoke  ill  of 
any  one,  though  she  was  fond  of  gossip.  In 
her  youth  she  had  been  pretty,  had  played 
the  clavichord,  and  spoken  French  a  little ; 
but  in  the  course  of  many  years'  wanderings 
with  her  husband,  whom  she  had  married 
against  her  will,  she  had  grown  stout,  and  for- 
gotten music  and  French.  Her  son  she  loved 
and  feared  unutterably ;  she  had  given  up  the 
management  of  the  property  to  Vassily  Ivano- 

212 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

vitch — and  now  did  not  interfere  in  anything  ; 
she  used  to  groan,  wave  her  handkerchief,  and 
raise  her  eyebrows  higher  and  higher  with  horror 
directly  her  old  husband  began  to  discuss  the 
impending  government  reforms  and  his  own 
plans.  She  was  apprehensive,  and  constantly 
expecting  some  great  misfortune,  and  began  to 
weep  directly  she  remembered  anything  sorrow- 
ful. .  .  .  Such  women  are  not  common  nowadays. 
God  knows  whether  we  ought  to  rejoice  ? 


«3 


XXI 

On  getting  up  Arkady  opened  the  window,  and 
the  first  object  that  met  his  view  was  Vassily 
Ivanovitch.  In  an  Oriental  dressing-gown  girt 
round  the  waist  with  a  pocket-handkerchief  he 
was  industriously  digging  in  his  garden.  He 
perceived  his  young  visitor,  and  leaning  on  his 
spade,  he  called,  *  The  best  of  health  to  you  I 
How  have  you  slept  ? ' 

*  Capitally,'  answered  Arkady. 

*  Here  am  I,  as  you  see,  like  some  Cincinnatus, 
marking  out  a  bed  for  late  turnips.  The  time 
has  come  now — and  thank  God  for  it ! — when 
every  one  ought  to  obtain  his  sustenance  with 
his  own  hands  ;  it 's  useless  to  reckon  on  others  ; 
one  must  labour  oneself  And  it  turns  out  that 
Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  is  right.  Half  an  hour 
ago,  my  dear  young  gentleman,  you  might  have 
seen  me  in  a  totally  different  position.  One 
peasant  woman,  who  complained  of  looseness — 
that 's  how  they  express  it,  but  in  our  language., 
dysentery- — I  .  ,  .  how  can  I  express  it  best? 

214 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

i  administered  opium  ;  and  for  another  1 
extracted  a  tooth.  I  proposed  an  anaesthetic 
to  her  4  .  .  but  she  would  not  consent  All 
that  I  do  gratis — anamatyer  {en  amateur).  I  'm 
used  to  it,  though  ;  you  see,  I  'm  a  plebeian, 
homo  novus — not  one  of  the  old  stock,  not  like 
my  spouse.  .  .  .  Wouldn't  you  like  to  come 
this  way  into  the  shade,  to  breathe  the  morning 
freshness  a  little  before  tea  ? ' 
Arkady  went  out  to  him. 

*  Welcome  once  again,'  said  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch,  raising  his  hand  in  a  military  salute  to 
the  greasy  skull-cap  which  covered  his  head. 
'  You,  I  know,  are  accustomed  to  luxury,  to 
amusements,  but  even  the  great  ones  of  this 
world  do  not  disdain  to  spend  a  brief  space 
under  a  cottage  roof 

*  Good  heavens/  protested  Arkady,  '  as 
though  I  were  one  of  the  great  ones  of  this 
world  !     And  I  'm  not  accustomed  to  luxury.' 

*  Pardon  me,  pardon  me,'  rejoined  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  with  a  polite  simper.  *  Though  I  am 
laid  on  the  shelf  now,  I  have  knocked  about 
the  world  too — I  can  tell  a  bird  by  its  fligiit. 
I  am  something  of  a  psychologist  too  in  my 
own  way,  and  a  physiognomist.  If  I  had  not, 
I  will  venture  to  say,  been  endowed  with  that 
gift,  I  should  have  come  to  grief  long  ago  ; 
I  should  have  stood  no  chance,  a  poor  man  like 

215 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

me.  I  tell  you  without  flattery,  I  am  sincerely 
delighted  at  the  friendship  I  observe  between 
you  and  my  son.  I  have  just  seen  him  ;  he  got 
up  as  he  usually  does — no  doubt  you  are  aware 
of  it — very  early,  and  went  a  ramble  about  the 
neighbourhood.  Permit  me  to  inquire — have 
you  known  my  son  long  ? ' 
'  Since  last  winter.' 

*  Indeed.  And  permit  me  to  question  you 
further — but  hadn't  we  better  sit  down  ?  Per- 
mit me,  as  a  father,  to  ask  without  reserve, 
What  is  your  opinion  of  my  Yevgeny  ?  * 

*  Your  son  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
I  have  ever  met,'  Arkady  answered  emphatically. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch's  eyes  suddenly  grew 
round,  and  his  cheeks  were  suffused  with  a 
faint  flush.     The  spade  fell  out  of  his  hand. 

*  And  so  you  expect,'  he  began  .  .  . 

'  I  'm  convinced,'  Arkady  put  in,  *  that  your 
son  has  a  great  future  before  him  ;  that  he  will 
do  honour  to  your  name.  I  've  been  certain  of 
that  ever  since  I  first  met  him.' 

*  How  .  .  .  how  was  that  ? '  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch  articulated  with  an  effort.  His  wide  mouth 
was  relaxed  in  a  triumphant  smile,  which  would 
not  leave  it. 

'  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  how  we  met  ?  * 

*  Yes  .  .  .  and  altogether.  .  .  .* 

Arkady  begap  to  tell  his  tale,  and  to  talk  of 

216 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Bazarov  with  even  greater  warmth,  even  greater 
enthusiasm  than  he  had  done  on  the  evening 
when  he  danced  a  mazurka  with  Madame 
Odintsov. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  listened  and  listened, 
blinked,  and  rolled  his  handkerchief  up  into  a 
ball  in  both  his  hands,  cleared  his  throat,  ruffled 
up  his  hair,  and  at  last  could  stand  it  no  longer ; 
he  bent  down  to  Arkady  and  kissed  him  on  his 
shoulder.  *  You  have  made  me  perfectly 
happy,'  he  said,  never  ceasing  to  smile.  *  I 
ought  to  tell  you,  I  .  .  .  idolise  my  son ;  my 
old  wife  I  won't  speak  of — we  all  know  what 
mothers  are  ! — but  I  dare  not  show  my  feelings 
before  him,  because  he  doesn't  like  it.  He  is 
averse  to  every  kind  of  demonstration  of  feeling ; 
many  people  even  find  fault  with  him  for  such 
firmness  of  character,  and  regard  it  as  a  proof 
of  pride  or  lack  of  feeling,  but  men  like  him 
ought  not  to  be  judged  by  the  common  standard, 
ought  they  ?  And  here,  for  example,  many 
another  fellow  in  his  place  would  have  been  a 
constant  drag  on  his  parents ;  but  he,  would  you 
believe  it  ?  has  never  from  the  day  he  was  born 
taken  a  farthing  more  than  he  could  help,  that  *s 
God's  truth  ! ' 

'  He  is  a  disinterested,  honest  man,'  observed 

Arkady. 

*  Exactly  so ;  he  is  disinterested.    And  I  don't 

217 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

only  idolise  him,  Arkady  Nikolaitch,  I  am  proud 
of  him,  and  the  height  of  my  ambition  is  that 
some  day  there  will  be  the  following  lines  in  his 
biography  :  "  The  son  of  a  simple  army-doctor, 
who  was,  however,  capable  of  divining  his  great- 
ness betimes,  and  spared  nothing  for  his  educa- 
tion .  ."'  The  old  man's  voice  broke.' 
Arkady  pressed  his  hand. 

*  What  do  you  think,'  inquired  Vassily  Ivan- 
ovitch,  after  a  short  silence,  '  will  it  be  in  the 
career  of  medicine  that  he  will  attain  the 
celebrity  you  anticipate  for  him  ? ' 

*  Of  course,  not  in  medicine,  though  even  in 
that  department  he  will  be  one  of  the  leading 
scientific  men.' 

*  In  what  then,  Arkady  Nikolaitch  ? 

*  It  would  be  hard  to  say  now,  but  he  will  be 
famous.' 

*  He  will  be  famous  ! '  repeated  the  old  man, 
and  he  sank  into  a  reverie. 

*  Arina  Vlasyevna  sent  me  to  call  you  in  to 
tea,'  announced  Anfisushka,  coming  by  with  an 
immense  dish  of  ripe  raspberries. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  started.  '  And  will  there 
be  cooled  cream  for  the  raspberries  ? ' 

*  Yes.' 

*  Cold  now,  mind  !    Don't  stand  on  ceremony , 

Arkady  Nikolaitch ;  take  some  more.     How  is, 

it  Yevgeny  doesn't  come  ? ' 

218 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  I  'm  here/  was  heard  Bazarov's  voice  from 
Arkady's  room. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  turned  round  quickly. 
*  Aha !  you  wanted  to  pay  a  visit  to  your 
friend  ;  but  you  were  too  late,  amice,  and  we 
have  already  had  a  long  conversation  with  him. 
Now  we  must  go  in  to  tea,  mother  summons 
us.  By  the  way,  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you.' 

*  What  about  ? ' 

*  There 's  a  peasant  here ;  he 's  suffering  from 
icterus.  ^  .  .' 

*  You  mean  jaundice  ?  * 

*  Yes,  a  chronic  and  very  obstinate  case  of 
icterus.  I  have  prescribed  him  centaury  and 
St.  John's  wort,  ordered  him  to  eat  carrots, 
given  him  soda  ;  but  all  that 's  merely  palliative 
measures  ;  we  want  some  more  decided  treat- 
ment. Though  you  do  laugh  at  medicine,  I  am 
certain  you  can  give  me  practical  advice.  But 
we  will  talk  of  that  later.     Now  come  in  to  tea.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  jumped  up  briskly  from 
the  garden  seat,  and  hummed  from  Robert  le 
Diable — 

*  The  rule,  the  rule  we  set  ourselves. 
To  live,  to  live  for  pleasure  I ' 

*  Singular  vitality  ! '  observed  Bazarov,  going 
away  from  the  window. 

219 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

f — 
It  was  midday.     The  sun  was  burning  hot 

behind  a  thin  veil  of  unbroken  whitish  clouds. 

Everything  was  hushed  ;  there  was  no  sound 

but  the  cocks  crowing  irritably  at  one  another 

in  the  village,  producing  in  every  one  who  heard 

them  a  strange  sense  of  drowsiness  and  ennui  ; 

and    somewhere,   high    up   in   a   tree-top,   the 

incessant   plaintive  cheep   of    a   young   hawk. 

Arkady  and    Bazarov  lay  in    the   shade  of  a 

small  haystack,  putting  under  themselves  two 

armfuls  of  dry  and  rustling,  but  still*  greenish 

and  fragrant  grass.  \ 

'  That  aspen-tree,'  began   Bazarov,  '  reminds 

me  of  my  childhood  ;  it  grows  at  the  edge  of 

the  clay-pits  where  the  bricks  were  dug,  and  in 

those  days   I   believed  firmly  that  that  clay-pit 

and  aspen-tree  possessed  a  peculiar  talismanic 

DOwer ;  I  never  felt  dull  near  them.     I  did  not 

understand  then  that  I  was  not  dull,  because 

I  was  a  child.     Well,  now  I  'm  grown  up,  the 

talisman 's  lost  its  power.' 

*  How  long  did  you  live  here  altogether  ? ' 
asked  Arkady. 

*  Two  years  on  end  ;  then  we  travelled  about 
We  led  a  roving  life,  wandering  from  town  to 
town  for  the  most  part' 

'  And  has  this  house  been  standing  long  ? ' 
'  Yes.     My  grandfather  built  it — my  mother's 
father.' 

22C 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

*  Who  was  he — your  grandfather  ? ' 

*  Devil  knows.  Some  second -major.  He 
served  with  Suvorov,  and  was  always  telling 
stories  about  the  crossing  of  the  Alps — inven- 
tions probably. 

*  You  have  a  portrait  of  Suvorov  hanging  in 
the  drawing-room.  I  like  these  dear  little 
houses  like  yours ;  they  're  so  warm  and  old- 
fashioned  ;  and  there 's  always  a  special  sort  of 
scent  about  them.' 

*  A  smell  of  lamp-oil  and  clover/  Bazarov 
remarked,  yawning.  *  And  the  flies  in  those 
dear  little  houses.  .  .  .  Faugh  ! ' 

*  Tell  me,'  began  Arkady,  after  a  brief  pause, 
*were  they  strict  with  you  when  you  were  a 
child?' 

*  You  can  see  what  my  parents  are  like. 
They're  not  a  severe  sort' 

*  Are  you  fond  of  them,  Yevgeny  ? ' 
'  I  am,  Arkady.' 

*  How  fond  they  are  of  you  ! ' 

Bazarov  was  silent  for  a  little.  *  Do  you 
know  what  I  'm  thinking  about  ? '  he  brought 
out  at  last,  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head. 

'  No.     What  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  'm  thinking  life  is-  a  happy  thing  for  my 
parents.  My  father  at  sixty  is  fussing  around, 
talking  about  "  palliative  "  measures,  doctoring 
people,  playing  the  bountiful  master  with  the 

231 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

peasants — having  a  festive  time,  in  fact ;  and 
my  mother 's  happy  too  ;  her  day 's  so  chockful 
of  duties  of  all  sorts,  and  sighs  and  groans 
that  she's  no  time  even  to  think  of  herself; 
while  I  .  .  .' 
'  While  you  ?  * 

*  I  think  ;  here  I  He  under  a  haystack.  .  .  . 
The  tiny  space  I  occupy  is  so  infinitely  small  in 
comparison  with  the  rest  of  space,  in  which  I 
am  not,  and  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  me  ; 
and  the  period  of  time  in  which  it  is  my  lot  to 
live  is  so  petty  beside  the  eternity  in  which  I 
have  not  been,  and  shall  not  be.  .  .  .  And  in  this 
atom,  this  mathematical  point,  the  blood  is 
circulating,  the  brain  is  working  and  wanting 
something.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  loathsome  ?  Isn't  it 
petty  ? ' 

*  Allow  me  to  remark  that  what  you  *re  saying 
applies  to  men  in  general.' 

'  You  are  right,'  Bazarov  cut  in.  *  I  was  going 
to  say  that  they  now — my  parents,  I  mean — 
are  absorbed  and  don't  trouble  themselves  about 
their  own  nothingness  ;  it  doesn't  sicken  them 
,  .  .  while  I  ...  I  feel  nothing  but  weariness 
and  anger.' 

'  Anger  ?  why  anger  ? 

'  Why  ?  How  can  you  ask  why  ?  Have  you 
forgotten  ? ' 

*  I   remember   everything,   but   still    I    don't 

222 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

admit  that  you  have  any  right  to  be  angry. 
You  're  unlucky,  I  '11  allow,  but  .  .  .' 

*  Pooh  !  then  you,  Arkady  Nikolaevitch,  I  can 
see,  regard  love  like  all  modern  young  men  ; 
cluck,  cluck,  cluck  you  call  to  the  hen,  but 
if  the  hen  comes  near  you,  you  run  away. 
1  'm  not  like  that.  But  that 's  enough  of  that. 
What  can't  be  helped,  it's  shameful  to  talk 
about'  He  turned  over  on  his  side.  *  Aha ! 
there  goes  a  valiant  ant  dragging  off  a  half-dead 
fly.  Take  her,  brother,  take  her  !  Don't  pay 
attention  to  her  resistance  ;  it 's  your  privilege 
as  an  animal  to  be  free  from  the  sentiment  of 
pity — make  the  most  of  it — not  like  us  conscien- 
tious self-destructive  animals ! ' 

*  You  shouldn't  say  that,  Yevgeny  !  When 
have  you  destroyed  yourself .? 

Bazarov  raised  his  head.     *  That 's  the  only 

th  ing  I  pride  myself  on.     I  haven't  crushed  my- 

self,  so  a  woman  can't  crush  me.     Amen  !     It's 

all  over  !    You  shall  not  hear  another  word  from 

m  e  about  it' 

Both  the  friends  lay  for  some  time  in  silence.     \ 

'  Yes,*    began    Bazarov,    '  man 's    a    strange      )  \ 

animal.     When  one   gets   a  side  view  from  a      j  \ 

distance  of  the   dead-alive   life   our  "fathers"      :j 

lead  here,  one  thinks.  What  could  be  better?      I  \ 

You  eat  and  drink,  and  know  you  are  acting  in       \  V 

the   most   reasonable,  most  judicious  manner. 

223 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDRtlN 

But  if  not,  you  're  devoured  by  ennui.  One 
wants  to  have  to  do  with  people  if  only  to 
abuse  them.' 

*  One  ought  so  to  order  one's  life  that  every 
moment  in  it  should  be  of  significance,'  Arkady 
affirmed  reflectively. 

'  I  dare  say  !  What 's  of  significance  is  sweet, 
however  mistaken  ;  one  could  make  up  one's 
mind  to  what 's  insignificant  even.  But  petti- 
ness, pettiness,  that 's  what 's  insufferable.' 

*  Pettiness  doesn't  exist  for  a  man  so  long  as 
he  refuses  to  recognise  it' 

'  H'm  .  .  .  what  you  've  just  said  is  a  common- 
place reversed.' 

'  What  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  that 
*erm  ? ' 

*  I  '11  tell  you  :  saying,  for  instance,  that  educa- 
tion is  beneficial,  that 's  a  commonplace  ;  but  to 
say  that  education  is  injurious,  that's  a  common- 
place turned  upside  down.  There 's  more  style 
about  it,  so  to  say,  but  in  reality  it 's  one  and 
the  same.' 

'  And  the  truth  is — where,  which  side  } ' 

*  Where  ?     Like  an  echo  I  answer,  *  Where  ?' 

*  You  're  in  a  melancholy  mood  to-day,  Yev- 
geny.' 

*  Really  ?     The  sun  must  have  softened  my 

brain,  I  suppose,  and   I   can't  stand  so  many 

raspberries  either.' 

224 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

*  In  that  case,  a  nap 's  not  a  bad  thing/ 
observed  Arkady. 

*  Certainly ;  only  don't  look  at  me  ;  every 
man's  face  is  stupid  when  he 's  asleep.' 

*  But  isn't  it  all  the  same  to  you  what  people 
think  of  you  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  A  real 
man  ought  not  to  care  ;  a  real  man  is  one  whom 
it 's  no  use  thinking  about,  whom  one  must  either 
obey  or  hate.' 

'  It 's  funny  !  I  don't  hate  anybody,'  observed 
Arkady,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

*  And  I  hate  so  many.  You  are  a  soft- 
hearted, mawkish  creature ;  how  could  you 
hate  any  one  ?  .  .  .  You  're  timid  ;  you  don't 
rely  on  yourself  much.' 

*  And  you,'  interrupted  Arkady,  *  do  you 
expect  much  of  yourself?  Have  you  a  high 
opinion  of  yourself?' 

Bazarov  paused.     *  When  I  meet  a  man  who 

can  hold  his  own  beside  me,'  he  said,  dwelling 

on  every  syllable,  '  then  I  '11  change  my  opinion 

of  myself    Yes,  hatred  !    You  said,  for  instance, 

to-day  as  we  passed  our  bailiff  Philip's  cottage — 

it 's  the  one  that 's  so  nice  and  clean — well,  you 

said,  Russia  will  come  to  perfection  when  the 

poorest  peasant  has  a  house  like  that,  and  every 

one  of  us  ought  to  work  to  bring  it  about.  .  .  . 

And  I  felt  such  a  hatred  for  this  poorest  peasant, 

225  p 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

this  Philip  or  Sidor,  for  whom  I  'm  to  be  ready 
to  jump  out  of  my  skin,  and  who  won't  even 
thank  me  for  it  .  .  .  and  why  should  he  thank 
me  ?  Why,  suppose  he  does  live  in  a  clean 
house,  while  the  nettles  are  growing  out  of 
me, — well  what  do  I  gain  by  it  ? ' 

*  Hush,  Yevgeny  ...  if  one  listened  to  you 
to-day  one  would  be  driven  to  agreeing  with 
those  who  reproach  us  for  want  of  principles.' 

*  You  talk  like  your  uncle.  There  are  no 
general  principles — you've  not  made  out  that 
even  yet !  There  are  feelings.  Everything 
depends  on  them.' 

'  How  so  ? ' 

*  Why,  I,  for  instance,  take  up  a  negative 
attitude,  by  virtue  of  my  sensations ;  I  like  to 
deny — my  brain  's  made  on  that  plan,  and  that's 
all  about  it !  Why  do  I  like  chemistry  ?  Why 
do  you  like  apples  ? — by  virtue  of  our  sensa- 
tions. It's  all  the  same  thing.  Deeper  than 
that  men  will  never  penetrate.  Not  every  one 
will  tell  you  that,  and,  in  fact,  I  shan't  tell  you 
so  another  time.' 

'What?  and  is  honesty  a  matter  of  the 
senses  ? ' 

*  r  should  rather  think  so.' 

*  Yevgeny ! '    Arkady   was    beginning    in    a 

dejected  voice  .  .  . 

'Well?   What?   Isn't  it  to  your  taste  ?' broke 

226 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

In  Bazarov.  *  No,  brother.  If  you  've  made  up 
your  mind  to  mow  down  everything,  don't  spare 
your  own  legs.  But  we've  talked  enough 
metaphysics.  "  Nature  breathes  the  silence  of 
sleep,"  said  Pushkin.' 

*  He  never  said  anything  of  the  sort,'  protested 
Arkady. 

'  Well,  if  he  didn  't,  as  a  poet  he  might  have — 
and  ought  to  have  said  it  By  the  way,  he  must 
have  been  a  military  man.' 

'  Pushkin  never  was  a  military  man  !  * 
Why,  on   every  page  of  him  there 's,  **  To 
arms  1  to  arms  !  for  Russia's  honour  !  " ' 

*  Why,  what  stories  you  invent !  I  declare, 
t  's  positive  calumny.' 

*  Calumny  ?  That 's  a  mighty  matter  !  What 
a  word  he 's  found  to  frighten  me  with  !  What- 
ever charge  you  make  against  a  man,  you  may 
be  certain  he  deserves  twenty  times  worse  than 
that  in  reality.' 

'  We  had  better  go  to  sleep/  said  Arkady,  in 
c  tone  of  vexation. 

*  With  the  greatest  pleasure,'  answered  Baz- 
arov. But  neither  of  them  slept.  A  feeling 
almost  of  hostility  had  come  over  both  the 
young  men.  Five  minutes  later,  they  opened 
\heir  eyes  and  glanced  at  one  another  in 
silence. 

*  Look/  said  Arkady  suddenly,  *  a  dry  maple 

227 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

leaf  has  come  off  and  is  falling  to  the  earth  ; 
its  movement  is  exactly  like  a  butterfly's  flight. 
Isn't  it  strange  ?  Gloom  and  decay — like  bright- 
ness and  life.' 

'  Oh,  my  friend,  Arkady  Nikolaitch  ! '  cried 
Bazarov,  '  one  thing  I  entreat  of  you  ;  no  fine 
talk.' 

*  I  talk  as  best  I  can.  .  .  .  And,  I  declare,  it 's 
perfect  despotism.  An  idea  came  into  my 
head  ;  why  shouldn't  I  utter  it  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  and  why  shouldn't  I  utter  my  ideas  ? 
I  think  that  fine  talk  's  positively  indecent' 

*  And  what  is  decent }     Abuse  ? ' 

'  Ha  !  ha  !  you  really  do  intend,  I  see,  to  walk 
in  your  uncle's  footsteps.  How  pleased  that 
worthy  imbecile  would  have  been  if  he  had 
heard  you  !  * 

*  What  did  you  call  Pavel  Petrovitch  ? ' 

*  I  called  him,  very  justly,  an  imbecile.' 

'  But  this  is  unbearable  ! '  cried  Arkady. 

'  Aha  !  family  feeling  spoke  there,'  Bazarov 
commented  coolly.  *  I  've  noticed  how  obsti- 
nately it  sticks  to  people.  A  man  's  ready  to  give 
up  everything  and  break  with  every  prejudice ; 
but  to  admit  that  his  brother,  for  instance,  who 
steals  handkerchiefs,  is  a  thief — that 's  too  much 
for  him.  And  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it : 
my  brother,  mine — and  no  genius  .  .  .  that 's  an 

idea  no  one  can  swallow.' 

228 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  It  was  a  simple  sense  of  justice  spoke  in  me 
and  not  in  the  least  family  feeling/  retorted 
Arkady  passionately.  '  But  since  that's  a  sense 
you  don't  understand,  since  you  haven't  that 
sensation,  you  can't  judge  of  it.' 

'  In  other  words,  Arkady  Kirsanov  is  too 
exalted  for  my  comprehension.  I  bow  down 
before  him  and  say  no  more.' 

'  Don't,  please,  Yevgeny ;  we  shall  really 
quarrel  at  last.'  '*' 

'  Ah,  Arkady !  do  me  a  kindness,  I  entreat 
you,  let  us  quarrel  for  once  in  earnest.  .  .  .' 

'  But  then  perhaps  we  should  end  by  .  .  .' 

*  Fighting  ? '  put  in  Bazarov.  '  Well  ?  Here, 
on  the  hay,  in  these  idyllic  surroundings,  far 
from  the  world  and  the  eyes  of  men,  it  wouldn't 
matter.  But  you  'd  be  no  match  for  me.  I  'd 
have  you  by  the  throat  in  a  minute.' 

Bazarov  spread  out  his  long,  cruel  fingers.  .  .  . 
Arkady  turned  round  and  prepared,  as  though 
in  jest,  to  resist.  .  .  .  But  his  friend's  face  struck 
him  as  so  vindictive — there  was  such  menace 
in  grim  earnest  in  the  smile  that  distorted  his 
lips,  and  in  his  glittering  eyes,  that  he  felt  in- 
stinctively afraid. 

'  Ah  !  so  this  is  where  you  have  got  to  ! '  the 

voice  of  Vassily  Ivanovitch  was  heard  saying  at 

that  instant,  and  the  old  army-doctor  appeared 

before  the  young  men,  garbed  in  a  home-made 

229 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

linen  pea-jacket,with  a  straw  hat, also  home-made, 
on  his  head.  *  I  've  been  looking  everywhere  for 
you.  .  .  .  Well,  you  Ve  picked  out  a  capital  place, 
and  you  're  excellently  employed.  Lying  on 
the  "earth,  gazing  up  to  heaven."  Do  you 
know,  there 's  a  special  significance  in  that  ? ' 

*  I  never  gaze  up  to  heaven  except  when  I 
want  to  sneeze,'  growled  Bazarov,  and  turning 
to  Arkady  he  added  in  an  undertone.  '  Pity  he 
interrupted  us.' 

*  Come,  hush ! '  whispered  Arkady,  and  he 
secretly  squeezed  his  friend's  hand.  But  na 
friendship  can  long  stand  such  shocks. 

*  I  look  at  you,  my  youthful  friends,'  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  was  saying  meantime,  shaking  his 
head,  and  leaning  his  folded  arms  on  a  rather 
cunningly  bent  stick  of  his  own  carving, 
with  a  Turk's  figure  for  a  top, — *  I  look,  and  I 
cannot  refrain  from  admiration.  You  have  so 
much  strength,  such  youth  and  bloom,  such 
abilities,  such  talents  !  Positively,  a  Castor  and 
Pollux  ! ' 

*  Get  along  with  you — going  off  into  mytho- 
logy ! '  commented  Bazarov.  '  You  can  see  at 
once  that  he  was  "a  great  Latinist  in  his  day ! 
Why,  I  seem  to  remember,  you  gained  the  silver 
medal  for  Latin  prose — didn't  you  ? ' 

'  The  Dioscuri,  the  Dioscuri!'  repeated  Vassily 

Ivanovitch. 

230 


i 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  Come,  shut  up,  father  ;  don't  show  off/ 

*  Once  in  a  way  it 's  surely  permissible,'  mur- 
mured the  old  man.  '  However,  I  have  not 
been  seeking  for  you,  gentlemen,  to  pay  you 
compliments  ;  but  with  the  object,  in  the  first 
place,  of  announcing  to  you  that  we  shall  soon 
be  dining ;  and  secondly,  I  wanted  to  prepare 
you,  Yevgeny.  .  .  .  You  are  a  sensible  man,  yoi' 
know  the  world,  and  you  know  what  women  are, 
and  consequently  you  will  excuse.  .  .  .  Your 
mother  wished  to  have  a  Te  Deum  sung  on  the 
occasion  of  your  arrival.  You  must  not  imagine 
that  I  am  inviting  you  to  attend  this  thanks- 
giving— it  is  over  indeed  now ;  but  Father 
Alexey  .  .  .' 

*  The  village  parson  ? ' 

*  Well,  yes,  the  priest ;  he  ...  is  to  dine  .  .  . 
with  us.  ...  I  did  not  anticipate  this,  and  did 
not  even  approve  of  it  .  .  .  but  it  somehow  came 
about  ...  he  did  not  understand  me.  .  .  .  And, 
well  .  .  .  Arina  Vlasyevna  .  .  .  Besides,  he 's  a 
worthy,  reasonable  man.' 

*  He  won't  eat  my  share  at  dinner,  I  suppose  ?' 
queried  Bazarov. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  laughed.    '  How  you  talk!' 

'  Well,  that 's  all  I  ask.    I  'm  ready  to  sit  down 

to  table  with  any  man.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  set  his  hat  straight.     *  I 

was  certain  before  I  spoke,'  he  said,  *  that  you 

231 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

were  above  any  kind  of  prejudice.  Here  am  I, 
an  old  man  at  sixty-two,  and  I  have  none.* 
(Vassily  Ivanovitch  did  not  dare  to  confess  that 
he  had  himself  desired  the  thanksgiving  service. 
He  was  no  less  religious  than  his  wife.)  *  And 
Father  Alexey  very  much  wanted  to  make  your 
acquaintance.  You  will  like  him,  you  '11  see. 
He 's  no  objection  even  to  cards,  and  he  some- 
times— but  this  is  between  ourselves  .  .  .  posi- 
tively smokes  a  pipe.' 

'All  right.  We'll  have  a  round  of  whist 
after  dinner,  and  I  '11  clean  him  out' 

'  He !  he !  he !  We  shall  see !  That  remains 
to  be  seen.' 

*  I  know  you  *re  an  old  hand,'  said  Bazarov, 
with  a  peculiar  emphasis. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch's  bronzed  cheeks  were 
suffused  with  an  uneasy  flush. 

'  For  shame,  Yevgeny.  .  .  Let  bygones  be 
bygones.  Well,  I  'm  ready  to  acknowledge 
before  this  gentleman  I  had  that  passion  in  my 
youth  ;  and  I  have  paid  for  it  too  !  How  hot 
it  is,  though  !  Let  me  sit  down  with  you.  I 
shan't  be  in  your  way,  I  hope  ? ' 

'  Oh,  not  at  all,'  answered  Arkady. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  lowered  himself,  sighing, 

into  the  hay.     *  Your  present  quarters  remind 

me,   my  dear  sirs,'  he  began,  '  of  my  military 

bivouacking    existence,   the   ambulance    halts, 

232 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

somewhere  like  this  under  a  haystack,  and  even 
for  that  we  were  thankful'  He  sighed.  *  I  have 
had  many,  many  experiences  in  my  life.  For 
example,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  tell  you  a 
curious  episode  of  the  plague  in  Bessarabia.' 

'  For  which  you  got  the  Vladimir  cross  ? '  put 
in  Bazarov.  *  We  know,  we  know.  ,  .  .  By  the 
way,  why  is  it  you  're  not  wearing  it ;  '' 

'  Why,  I  told  you  that  I  have  no  prejudices,' 
muttered  Vassily  Ivanovitch  (he  had  only  the 
evening  before  had  the  red  ribbon  unpicked  off 
his  coat),  and  he  proceeded  to  relate  the  episode 
of  the  plague.  '  Why,  he 's  fallen  asleep,'  he 
whispered  all  at  once  to  Arkady,  pointing  to 
Yevgeny,  and  winking  good-naturedly.  *  Yev- 
geny !  get  up,'  he  went  on  aloud.  '  Let 's  go  in 
to.dinner.' 

Father  Alexey,  a  good-looking  stout  man 
with  thick,  carefully-combed  hair,  with  an  em- 
broidered girdle  round  his  lilac  silk  cassock,  ap- 
peared to  be  a  man  of  much  tact  and  adaptability. 
He  made  haste  to  be  the  first  to  offer  his  hand 
to  Arkady  and  Bazarov,  as  though  understanding 
beforehand  that  they  did  not  want  his  blessing, 
and  he  behaved  himself  in  general  without  con- 
straint He  neither  derogated  from  his  own 
dignity,  nor  gave  offence  to  others ;  he  vouch- 
safed a  passing  smile  at  the  seminary  Latin,  and 
stood  up  for  his  bishop  ;  drank  two  small  glasses 

233 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

of  wine,  but  refused  a  third ;  accepted  a  cigar 
from  Arkady,  but  did  not  proceed  to  smoke  it, 
saying  he  would  take  it  home  with  him.  The 
only  thing  not  quite  agreeable  about  him  was 
a  way  he  had  of  constantly  raising  his  hand 
with  care  and  deliberation  to  catch  the  flies  on 
his  face,  sometimes  succeeding  in  smashing  them. 
He  took  his  seat  at  the  green  table,  expressing 
his  satisfaction  at  so  doing  in  measured  terms, 
and  ended  by  winning  from  Bazarov  two  roubles 
and  a  half  in  paper  money  ;  they  had  no  idea  of 
even  reckoning  in  silver  in  the  house  of  Arina 
Vlasyevna.  ,  She  was  sitting,  as  before,  near 
her  son  (she  did  not  play  cards),  her  cheek,  as 
before,  propped  on  her  little  fist ;  she  only  got 
up  to  order  some  new  dainty  to  be  served.  She 
was  afraid  to  caress  Bazarov,  and  he  gave  her 
no  encouragement,  he  did  not  invite  her  caresses ; 
and  besides,  Vassily  Ivanovitch  had  advised  her 
not  to  '  worry '  him  too  much.  *  Young  men 
are  not  fond  of  that  sort  of  thing,'  he  declared 
to  her.  (It's  needless  to  say  what  the  dinner 
was  like  that  day ;  Timofeitch  in  person  had 
galloped  off  at  early  dawn  for  beef ;  the  bailiff 
had  gone  off  in  another  direction  for  turbot, 
gremille,  and  crayfish ;  for  mushrooms  alone 
forty-two  farthings  had  been  paid  the  peasant 
women  in  copper) ;  but  Arina  Vlasyevna's  cyeSf 

bent  steadfastly  on  Bazarov,  did  not  express 

234 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

only  devotion  and  tenderness ;  in  them  was  to 
be  seen  sorrow  also,  mingled  with  awe  and  curi- 
osity ;  there  was  to  be  seen  too  a  sort  of  humble 
reproachfulness. 

Bazarov,  however,  was  not  in  a  humour  to 
analyse  the  exact  expression  of  his  mother's 
eyes  ;  he  seldom  turned  to  her,  and  then  only 
with  some  short  question.  Once  he  asked  her 
for  her  hand  '  for  luck ' ;  she  gently  laid  her  soft, 
little  hand  on  his  rough,  broad  palm. 

*  Well,'  she  asked,  after  waiting  a  little,  *  has 
it  been  any  use  ? ' 

*  Worse  luck  than  ever/  he  answered,  with  a 
careless  laugh. 

'  He  plays  too  rashly,'  pronounced  Father 
Alexey,  as  it  were  compassionately,  and  he 
stroked  his  beard. 

*  Napoleon's  rule,  good  Father,  Napoleon's 
rule,'  put  in  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  leading  an  ace. 

*  It  brought  him  to  St.  Helena,  though, 
observed  Father  Alexey,  as  he  trumped  the  ace. 

'  Wouldn't  you  like  some  currant  tea,  En- 
yusha  ? '  inquired  Arina  Vlasyevna. 

Bazarov  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*  No  ! '  he  said  to  Arkady  the  next  day,  *  I  'm 

off  from  here  to-morrow.     I  'm  bored  ;  I  want 

to  work,  but  I  can't  work  here.     I  will  come  to 

your  place  again  ;   I  've  left  all  my  apparatus 

there  too.     In  your  house  one  can  at  any  rate 

235 


FATHERS    AND  CHILDREN 

shut  oneself  up.  While  here  my  father  repeats 
to  me,  "  My  study  is  at  your  disposal — nobody 
shall  interfere  with  you,"  and  all  the  time  he  him- 
self is  never  a  yard  away.  And  I  'm  ashamed 
somehow  to  shut  myself  away  from  him.  It 's 
the  same  thing  too  with  mother.  I  hear  her 
sighing  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and  if  one 
goes  in  to  her,  one  's  nothing  to  say  to  her.' 

'  She  will  be  very  much  grieved,'  observed 
Arkady,  *  and  so  will  he.' 

'  I  shall  come  back  again  to  them.' 
When  ? ' 

*  Why,  when  on  my  way  to  Petersburg.' 

*  I  feel  sorry  for  your  mother  particularly/ 

*  Why 's  that  ?  Has  she  won  your  heart  with 
strawberries,  or  what  ? ' 

Arkady  dropped  his  eyes.  *  You  don't  under- 
stand your  mother,  Yevgeny.  She 's  not  only 
a  very  good  woman,  she 's  very  clever  really, 
This  morning  she  talked  to  me  for  half-an-hour, 
and  so  sensibly,  interestingly.' 

'  I  suppose  she  was  expatiating  upon  me  all 
the  while  ? ' 

*  We  didn't  talk  only  about  you/ 

*  Perhaps  ;  lookers-on  see  most.  If  a  woman 
can  keep  up  half-an-hour's  conversation,  it's 
always  a  hopeful  sign.  But  I  'm  going,  all  the 
same.' 

*  It  won't  be  very  easy  for  you  to  break  it 

236 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

to  them.  They  are  always  making  plans  for 
what  we  are  to  do  in  a  fortnight's  time.* 

'  No ;  it  won't  be  easy.  Some  demon  drove 
me  to  tease  my  father  to-day  ;  he  had  one  of 
his  rent-paying  peasants  flogged  the  other  day, 
and  quite  right  too — yes,  yes,  you  needn't 
look  at  me  in  such  horror — he  did  quite  right, 
because  he 's  an  awful  thief  and  drunkard  ;  only 
my  father  had  no  idea  that  I,  as  they  say,  was 
cognisant  of  the  facts.  He  was  greatly  per- 
turbed, and  now  I  shall  have  to  upset  him  more 
than  ever.  .  .  .  Never  mind  !  Neve*'  say  die  I 
He  '11  get  over  it ! ' 

Bazarov  said,  *  Never  mind ' ;  but  <:he  whole 
day  passed  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind 
to  inform  Vassily  Ivanovitch  of  his  intentions. 
At  last,  when  he  was  just  saying  good-night  to 
him  in  the  study,  he  observed,  with  a  feigned 
yawn — 

*  Oh  ...  I  was  almost  forgetting  to  tell  you. . . » 
Send  to  Fedot's  for  our  horses  to-morrow.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  was  dumfoundwred.  *  Is 
Mr.  Kirsanov  leaving  us,  then  ? ' 

*  Yes  ;  and  I  'm  going  with  him.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  positively  reeled.  'You 
are  going  ? ' 

*  Yes  ...  I  must.  Make  the  arrangements 
about  the  horses,  please.' 

*  Very  good.   .  .  .'  faltered  the  old  man ;  to 

237 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Fedot's  .  .  ,  very  good  .  .  .  only  .  .  .  only.  .  .  , 
How  is  it  ?  * 

'  I  must  go  to  stay  with  him  for  a  little  time. 
I  will  come  back  here  again  later.' 

*  Ah  !  For  a  little  time  .  .  .  very  good.* 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  drew  out  his  handkerchief, 
and,  blowing  his  nose,  doubled  up  almost  to 
the  ground.  *  Well  .  .  .  everything  shall  be 
done.  I  had  thought  you  were  to  be  with  us 
.  .  .  a  little  longer.  Three  days.  .  .  .  After 
three  years,  it's  rather  little;  rather  little, 
Yevgeny !  * 

*  But,  I  tell  you,  I  'm  coming  back  directly. 
It 's  necessary  for  me  to  go.' 

*  Necessary.  .  .  .  Well !  Duty  before  every- 
thing. So  the  horses  shall  be  in  readiness. 
Very  good.  Arina  and  I,  of  course,  did  not 
anticipate  this.  She  has  just  begged  some 
flowers  from  a  neighbour;  she  meant  to 
decorate  the  room  for  you.'  (Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch did  not  even  mention  that  every  morn- 
ing almost  at  dawn  he  took  counsel  with 
Timofeitch,  standing  with  his  bare  feet  in  his 
slippers,  and  pulling  out  with  trembling  fingers 
one  dog's-eared  rouble  note  after  another, 
charged  him  with  various  purchases,  with 
special  reference  to  good  things  to  eat,  and  to 
red  wine,  which,  as  far  as  he  could  observe, 

the  young   men   liked   extremely.)      *  Liberty 

238 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

...  IS  the  great  thing ;    that 's  my  rule.  .  .  , 
I  don't  want  to  hamper  you  .  .  .  not  .  .  . 
He  suddenly  ceased,  and  made  for  the  door. 

*  We  shall  soon  see  each  other  again,  father, 
really.' 

But  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  without  turning 
round,  merely  waved  his  hand  and  was  gone. 
When  he  got  back  to  his  bedroom  he  found  his 
wife  in  bed,  and  began  to  say  his  prayers  in  a 
whisper,  so  as  not  to  wake  her  up.  She  woke, 
however.  *  Is  that  you,  Vassily  Ivanovitch  ? ' 
she  asked. 

*  Yes,  mother.' 

*  Have  you  come  from  Enyusha  ?  Do  you 
know,  I  'm  afraid  of  his  not  being  comfortable 
on  that  sofa.  I  told  Anfisushka  to  put  him 
your  travelling  mattress  and  the  new  pillows  ; 
I  should  have  given  him  our  feather-bed,  but  I 
seem  to  remember  he  doesn't  like  too  soft  a 
bed.  .  .  .' 

'  Never  mind,  mother ;  don't  worry  yourself 
He's  all  right.  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me,  a 
sinner,'  he  went  on  with  his  prayer  in  a  low 
voice.  Vassily  Ivanovitch  was  sorry  for  his  old 
wife  ;  he  did  not  mean  to  tell  her  over  night 
what  a  sorrow  there  was  in  store  for  her. 

Bazarov  and  Arkady  set  off  the  next  day. 
From  early  morning  all  was  dejection  in  the 
house ;  Anfisushka  let  the  tray  slip  out  of  her 

239 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDRLN 

hands  ;  even  Fedka  was  bewildered,  and  was 
reduced  to  taking  off  his  boots.  Vassily 
Ivanitch  was  more  fussy  than  ever ;  he  was 
obviously  trying  to  put  a  good  face  on  it,  talked 
loudly,  and  stamped  with  his  feet,  but  his  face 
looked  haggard,  and  his  eyes  were  continually 
avoiding  his  son.  Arina  Vlasyevna  was  cry- 
ing quietly ;  she  was  utterly  crushed,  and 
could  not  have  controlled  herself  at  all  if  her 
husband  had  not  spent  two  whole  hours 
early  in  the  morning  exhorting  her.  When 
Bazarov,  after  repeated  promises  to  come  back 
certainly  not  later  than  in  a  month's  time,  tore 
himself  at  last  from  the  embraces  detaining  him, 
and  took  his  seat  in  the  coach ;  when  the  horses 
had  started,  the  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  wheels 
were  turning  round,  and  when  it  was  no  longer 
any  good  to  look  after  them,  and  the  dust  had 
settled,  and  Timofeitch,  all  bent  and  tottering 
as  he  walked,  had  crept  back  to  his  little  room  ; 
when  the  old  people  were  left  alone  in  their  little 
house,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown 
shrunken  and  decrepit  too,  Vassily  Ivanovitch, 
after  a  few  more  moments  of  hearty  waving  of 
his  handkerchief  on  the  steps,  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  his  head  dropped  on  to  his  breast.  *  He  has 
cast  us  off;  he  has  forsaken  us,*  he  faltered  ; 
*  forsaken  us  ;    he   was   dull  with   us.     Alone, 

alone  ! '  he  repeated  several  times.     Then  Arina 

240 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

Vlasyevna  went  up  to  him,  and,  leaning  her 
grey  head  against  his  grey  head,  said,  '  There 's 
no  help  for  it,  Vasya  !  A  son  is  a  separate 
piece  cut  off.  He's  like  the  falcon  that  flies 
home  and  flies  away  at  his  pleasure  ;  while  you 
and  I  are  like  funguses  in  the  hollow  of  a  tree, 
we  sit  side  by  side,  and  don't  move  from  our 
place.  Only  1  am  left  you  unchanged  for  ever, 
as  you  for  me.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  took  his  hands  from  his 
face  and  clasped  his  wife,  his  friend,  as  warmly 
as  he  had  never  clasped  in  youth  ;  she  comforted 
him  in  his  grief. 


Uf 


XXII 

In  silence,  only  rarely  exchanging  a  few  in- 
significant words,  our  friends  travelled  as  far 
as  Fedot's.  Bazarov  was  not  altogether 
pleased  with  himself.  Arkady  was  displeased 
with  him.  He  was  feeling,  too,  that  causeless 
melancholy  which  is  only  known  to  very  young 
people.  The  coachman  changed  the  horses, 
and  getting  up  on  to  the  box,  inquired,  '  To 
the  right  or  to  the  left  ? ' 

x^rkady  started.  The  road  to  the  right  led 
to  the  town,  and  from  there  home  ;  the  road  to 
the  left  led  to  Madame  Odintsov's. 

He  looked  at  Bazarov. 

'  Yevgeny,'  he  queried  ;  '  to  the  left  ? ' 

Bazarov  turned  away.  *  What  folly  is  this  ?  * 
he  muttered. 

'  I  know  it 's  folly,'  answered  Arkady.  ...  *  But 
what  does  that  matter  ?     It 's  not  the  first  time.' 

Bazarov  pulled  his  cap  down  over  his  brows. 
*  As  you  choose,'  he  said  at  last  *  Turn  to  the 
left,'  shouted  Arkady. 

24« 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

The  coach  rolled  away  in  the  direction  of 
Nikolskoe.  But  having  resolved  on  the  folly, 
the  friends  were  even  more  obstinately 
silent  than  before,  and  seemed  positively  ill- 
humoured. 

Directly  the  steward  met  them  on  the  steps 
of  Madame  Odintsov's  house,  the  friends  could 
perceive  that  they  had  acted  injudiciously  in 
giving  way  so  suddenly  to  a  passing  impulse. 
They  were  obviously  not  expected.  They 
sat  rather  a  long  while,  looking  rather  foolish, 
in  the  drawing-room.  Madame  Odintsov 
came  in  to  them  at  last.  She  greeted  them 
with  her  customary  politeness,  but  was  sur- 
prised at  their  hasty  return  ;  and,  so  far  as 
could  be  judged  from  the  deliberation  of  her 
gestures  and  words,  she  was  not  over  pleased  at 
it.  They  made  haste  to  announce  that  they 
had  only  called  on  their  road,  and  must  go  on 
farther,  to  the  town,  within  four  hours.  She 
confined  herself  to  a  slight  exclamation,  begged 
Arkady  to  remember  her  to  his  father,  and 
sent  for  her  aunt  The  princess  appeared  very 
sleepy,  which  gave  her  wrinkled  old  face  an 
even  more  ill-natured  expression.  Katya  was 
not  well ;  she  did  not  leave  her  room.  Arkady 
suddenly  realised  that  he  was  at  least  as  anxious 
to  see  Katya  as  Anna  Sergyevna  herself.  The 
four  hours  were  spent  in  insignificant  discussion 

243 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

of  one  thing  and  another  ;  Anna  Sergyevna 
both  listened  and  spoke  without  a  smile.  It 
was  only  quite  at  parting  that  her  former  friend- 
liness seemed,  as  it  were,  to  revive. 

*  I  have  an  attack  of  spleen  just  now,'  shr 
said  ;  '  but  you  must  not  pay  attention  to  tha 
and  come  again — I  say  this  to  both  of  you — 
before  long.' 

Both  Bazarov  and  Arkady  responded  with  a 
silent  bow,  took  their  seats  in  the  coach,  and 
without  stopping  again  anywhere,  went  straight 
home  to  Maryino,  where  they  arrived  safely  on 
the  evening  of  the  following  day.  During  the 
whole  course  of  the  journey  neither  one  nor  the 
other  even  mentioned  the  name  of  Madame 
Odintsov ;  Bazarov,  in  particular,  scarcely 
opened  his  mouth,  and  kept  staring  in  a  side 
direction  away  from  the  road,  with  a  kind  of 
exasperated  intensity. 

At  Maryino  every  one  was  exceedingly  de- 
lighted to  see  them.  The  prolonged  absence 
of  his  son  had  begun  to  make  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch  uneasy  ;  he  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  and 
bounced  about  on  the  sofa,  dangling  his  legs, 
when  Fenitchka  ran  to  him  with  sparkling 
eyes,  and  informed  him  of  the  arrival  of  the 
*  young  gentlemen  ' ;  even  Pavel  Petrovitch  was 
consciousof  some  degree  of  agreeable  excitement, 
and  smiled  condescendingly  as  he  shook  hands 

244 


FATHERS   AND    CHILDREN 

with  the  returned  wanderers.  Talk,  questions 
followed  ;  Arkady  talked  most,  especially  at 
supper,  which  was  prolonged  long  after  mid- 
night. Nikolai  Petrovitch  ordered  up  some 
bottles  of  porter  which  had  only  just  been 
sent  from  Moscow,  and  partook  of  the  festive 
beverage  till  his  cheeks  were  crimson,  and  he 
kept  laughing  a  half-childish,  half-nervous  little 
chuckle.  Even  the  servants  were  infected  by 
the  general  gaiety.  Dunyasha  ran  up  and 
down  like  one  possessed,  and  was  continually 
slamming  doors ;  while  Piotr  was,  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  still  attempting  to 
strum  a  Cossack  waltz  on  the  guitar.  The 
strings  gave  forth  a  sweet  and  plaintive 
sound  in  the  still  air ;  but  with  the  exception  of 
k  small  preliminary  flourish,  nothing  came  of 
the  cultured  valet's  efforts  ;  nature  had  given 
him  no  more  musical  talent  than  all  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

But  meanwhile  things  were  not  going  over 
harmoniously  at  Maryino,  and  poor  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  was  having  a  bad  time  of  it  Diffi- 
culties on  the  farm  sprang  up  every  day — sense- 
less, distressing  difficulties.  The  troubles  with 
the  hired  labourers  had  become  insupportable. 
Some  asked  for  their  wages  to  be  settled,  or  for 
an  increase  of  wages,  while  others  made  off  with 
the  wages  they  had  received  in  advar  ce  ;  the 

245 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

horses  fell  sick  ;  the  harness  fell  to  pieces  as 
though  it  were  burnt ;  the  work  was  carelessly 
done;  a  threshing  machine  that  had  been  ordered 
from  Moscow  turned  out  to  be  useless  from  its 
great  weight,  another  was  ruined  the  first  time  it 
was  used ;  half  the  cattle  sheds  were  burnt  down 
through  an  old  blind  woman  on  the  farm  going 
in  windy  weather  with  a  burning  brand  to 
fumigate  her  cow  .  .  .  the  old  woman,  it  is  true, 
maintained  that  the  whole  mischief  could  be 
traced  to  the  master's  plan  of  introducing  new- 
fangled cheeses  and  milk-products.  The  over- 
seer suddenly  turned  lazy,  and  began  to  grow 
fat,  as  every  Russian  grows  fat  when  he  gets 
a  snug  berth.  When  he  caught  sight  of 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  in  the  distance,  he  would 
fling  a  stick  at  a  passing  pig,  or  threaten 
a  half-naked  urchin,  to  show  his  zeal,  but  the 
rest  of  the  time  he  was  generally  asleep.  The 
peasants  who  had  been  put  on  the  rent  system 
did  not  bring  their  money  at  the  time  due,  and 
stole  the  forest-timber  ;  almost  every  night  the 
keepers  caught  peasants'  horses  in  the  meadows 
of  the  *  farm,'  and  sometimes  forcibly  bore  them 
off.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  would  fix  a  money  fine 
for  damages,  but  the  matter  usually  ended  after 
the  horses  had  been  kept  a  day  or  two  on  the 
master's    forage    by   their    returning   to   their 

owners.      To   crown   all,   the   ^peasants   began 

246 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

quarrelling  among  themselves;  brothers  asked 
for  a  division  of  property,  their  wives  could  not 
get  on  together  in  one  house  ;  all  of  a  sudden 
the  squabble,  as  though  at  a  given  signal,  came 
to  a  head,  and  at  once  the  whole  village  came 
running  to  the  counting-house  steps,  crawling 
to  the  master  often  drunken  and  with  battered 
face,  demanding  justice  and  judgment ;  then 
arose  an  uproar  and  clamour,  the  shrill  wail- 
ing of  the  women  mixed  with  the  curses  of 
the  men.  Then  one  had  to  examine  the  con- 
tending parties,  and  shout  oneself  hoarse, 
knowing  all  the  while  that  one  could  never 
anyway  arrive  at  a  just  decision.  .  .  .  There 
were  not  hands  enough  for  the  harvest ;  a 
neighbouring  small  owner,  with  the  most  bene- 
volent countenance,  contracted  to  supply  him 
with  reapers  for  a  commission  of  two  roubles  an 
acre,  and  cheated  him  in  the  most  shameless 
fashion ;  his  peasant  women  demanded  unheard- 
of  sums,  and  the  corn  meanwhile  went  to  waste ; 
and  here  they  were  not  getting  on  with  the 
mowing,  and  there  the  Council  of  Guardians 
threatened  and  demanded  prompt  payment,  in 
full,  of  interest  due.  .  .  . 

*  I  can  do  nothing  ! '  Nikolai  Petrovitch  cried 
more  than  once  in  despair.  *  I  can't  flog  them 
myself;  and  as  for  calling  in  the  police  captain, 
my  principles  don't  allow  of  it,  while  you  can 

247 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

do  nothing  with  them  without  the  fear  of 
punishment ! ' 

^  Du  calme,  du  cahne*  Pavel  Petrovitch 
would  remark  upon  this,  but  even  he 
hummed  to  himself,  knitted  his  brows,  and 
tugged  at  his  moustache. 

Bazarov  held  aloof  from  these  matters,  and 
indeed  as  a  guest  it  was  not  for  him  to  meddle  in 
other  people's  business.  The  day  after  his  arrival 
at  Maryino,  he  set  to  work  on  his  frogs,  his  in- 
fusoria, and  his  chemical  experiments,  and  was 
for  ever  busy  with  them.  Arkady,  on  the  con- 
trary, thought  it  his  duty,  if  not  to  help  his 
father,  at  least  to  make  a  show  of  being  ready 
to  help  him.  He  gave  him  a  patient  hearing, 
and  once  offered  him  some  advice,  not  with 
any  idea  of  its  being  acted  upon,  but  to  show 
his  interest.  Farming  details  did  not  arouse 
any  aversion  in  him ;  he  used  even  to  dream 
with  pleasure  of  work  on  the  land,  but  at  this 
time  his  brain  was  swarming  with  other  ideas. 
Arkady,  to  his  own  astonishment,  thought 
incessantly  of  Nikolskoe  ;  in  former  days  he 
would  simply  have  shrugged  his  shoulders  if 
any  one  had  told  him  that  he  could  ever  feel 
dull  under  the  same  roof  as  Bazarov — and  that 
roof  his  father's  !  but  he  actually  was  dull  and 
longed  to  get  away.    He  tried  going  long  walks 

till  he  was  tired,  but  that  was  no  use.     In  ccui- 

243 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

versation  with  his  father  one  day,  he  found  out 
that  Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  in  his  possession 
rather  interesting  letters,  written  by  Madame 
Odintsov's  mother  to  his  wife,  and  he  gave  him 
no  rest  till  he  got  hold  of  the  letters,  for  which 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  to  rummage  in  twenty 
drawers  and  boxes.  Having  gained  possession 
of  these  half-crumbling  papers,  Arkady  felt,  as  it 
were,  soothed,  just  as  though  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  goal  towards  which  he  ought 
now  to  go.  *  I  mean  that  for  both  of  you,'  he  was 
constantly  whispering — she  had  added  that  her- 
self !  *  ril  go,  I  '11  go,  hang  it  all ! '  But  he  re- 
called the  last  visit,  the  cold  reception,  and  his 
former  embarrassment,  and  timidity  got  the 
better  of  him.  The  *  go-ahead'  feeling  of  youth, 
the  secret  desire  to  try  his  luck,  to  prove  his 
powers  in  solitude,  without  the  protection  of 
any  one  whatever,  gained  the  day  at  last. 
Before  ten  days  had  passed  after  his  return  to 
Maryino,  on  the  pretext  of  studying  the  work- 
ing of  the  Sunday  schools,  he  galloped  off  to 
the  town  again,  and  from  there  to  Nikolskoe. 
Urging  the  driver  on  without  intermission,  he 
flew  along,  like  a  young  officer  riding  to  battle ; 
and  he  felt  both  frightened  and  light-hearted, 
and  was  breathless  with  impatience.  *  The 
great  thing  is — one  mustn't  think,'  he  kept 
repeating  to  himself     His  driver  happened  to 

249 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

be  a  lad  of  spirit ;  he  halted  before  every 
public  house,  saying,  *  A  drink  or  not  a  drink  ? ' 
but,  to  make  up  for  it,  when  he  had  drunk  he 
did  not  spare  his  horses.  At  last  the  lofty 
roof  of  the  familiar  house  came  in  sight.  . 
'What  am  I  to  do?'  flashed  through  Arkady's 
head.  *  Well,  there  's  no  turning  back  now  ! ' 
The  three  horses  galloped  in  unison ;  the 
driver  whooped  and  whistled  at  them.  And 
now  the  bridge  was  groaning  under  the  hoofs 
and  wheels,  and  now  the  avenue  of  lopped 
pines  seemed  running  to  meet  them.  .  ,  ,  There 
was  a  glimpse  of  a  woman's  pink  dress  against 
the  dark  green,  a  young  face  peeped  out  from 
under  the  light  fringe  of  a  parasol.  ...  He 
recognised  Katya,  and  she  recognised  him. 
Arkady  told  the  driver  to  stop  the  gallopping 
horses,  leaped  out  of  the  carriage,  and  went  up 
to  her.  'It's  you!'  she  cried,  gradually  flush- 
ing all  over;  'let  us  go  to  my  sister,  she's 
here  in  the  garden ;  she  will  be  pleased  to  see 
you.' 

Katya  led  Arkady  into  the  garden.  His 
meeting  with  her  struck  him  as  a  particularly 
happy  omen ;  he  was  delighted  to  see  her,  as 
though  she  were  of  his  own  kindred.  Every- 
thing had  happened  so  splendidly  ;  no  steward, 
no  formal   announcement.      At  a  turn   in  the 

path  he  caught  sight  of  Anna  Sergyevna.     She 

250 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

was  standing  with  her  back  to  him.  Hearing 
footsteps,  she  turned  slowly  round. 

Arkady  felt  confused  again,  but  the  first 
words  she  uttered  soothed  him  at  once.  *  Wel- 
come back,  runaway  ! '  she  said  in  her  even, 
caressing  voice,  and  came  to  meet  him,  smiling 
and  frowning  to  keep  the  sun  and  wind  out  of 
her  eyes.    '  Where  did  you  pick  him  up,  Katya  ?  * 

*  I  have  brought  you  something,  Anna  Serg- 
yevna,'  he  began,  '  which  you  certainly  don't 
expect.' 

'You  have  brought  yourself;  that's  better 
than  anything/ 


tjt 


xxiii 

Having  seen  Arkady  off  with  ironical  com- 
passion, and  given  him  to  understand  that  he 
was  not  in  the  least  deceived  as  to  the  real 
object  of  his  journey,  Bazarov  shut  himself  up 
in  complete  solitude  ;  he  was  overtaken  by  a 
fever  for  work.  He  did  not  dispute  now  with 
Pavel  Petrovitch,  especially  as  the  latter  assumed 
an  excessively  aristocratic  demeanour  in  his 
presence,  and  expressed  his  opinions  more  in 
inarticulate  sounds  than  in  words.  Only  on 
one  occasion  Pavel  Petrovitch  fell  into  a  con- 
troversy with  the  nihilist  on  the  subject  of  the 
question  then  much  discussed  of  the  rights  of 
the  nobles  of  the  Baltic  province ;  but  suddenly 
he  stopped  of  his  own  accord,  remarking  with 
chilly  politeness,  *  However,  we  cannot  under- 
stand one  another ;  I,  at  least,  have  not  the 
honour  of  understanding  you.' 

*  I  should  think   not ! '    cried    Bazarov.     *  A 
man 's  capable  of  understanding  anything — how 

the  aether  vibrates,  and  what 's  going  on  in  the 

252 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

sun — but  how  any  other  man  can  blow  his  nose 
differently  from  him,  that  he's  incapable  of 
understanding.' 

*  What,  is  that  an  epigram  ? '  observed  Pave) 
Petrovitch  inquiringly,  and  he  walked  away. 

However,  he  sometimes  asked  permission  to 
be  present  at  Bazarov's  experiments,  and  once 
even  placed  his  perfumed  face,  washed  with  the 
very  best  soap,  near  the  microscope  to  see  how 
a  transparent  infusoria  swallowed  a  green  speck 
and  busily  munched  it  with  two  very  rapid  sort 
of  clappers  which  were  in  its  throat.  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  visited  Bazarov  much  oftener  than 
his  brother  ;  he  would  have  come  every  day,  as 
he  expressed  it,  to  *  study,'  if  his  worries  on  the 
farm  had  not  taken  off  his  attention.  He  did 
not  hinder  the  young  man  in  his  scientific 
researches  ;  he  used  to  sit  down  somewhere  in 
a  corner  of  the  room  and  look  on  attentively, 
occasionally  permitting  himself  a  discreet  ques- 
tion. During  dinner  and  supper-time  he  used 
to  try  to  turn  the  conversation  upon  physics, 
geology,  or  chemistry,  seeing  that  all  other  topics. 
even  agricalture,  to  say  nothing  of  politics, 
might  lead,  if  not  to  collisions,  at  least  to 
mutual  unpleasantness.  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
surmised  that  his  brother's  dislike  for  Bazarov 
was  no  less.  An  unimportant  incident, 
among   many  others,   confirmed   his   surmises 

«S3 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

The  cholera  began  to  make  its  appearance  in 
some  places  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  even 
*  carried  off '  two  persons  from  Maryino  itself 
In  the  night  Pavel  Petrovitch  happened  to  have 
rather  severe  symptoms.  He  was  in  pain 
till  the  morning,  but  did  not  have  recourse  to 
Bazarov's  skill.  And  when  he  met  him  the 
following  day,  in  reply  to  his  question,  *  Why 
he  had  not  sent  for  him  ? '  answered,  still 
quite  pale,  but  scrupulously  brushed  and  shaved, 
Why,  I  seem  to  recollect  you  said  yourself  you 
didn't  believe  in  medicine.'  So  the  days  went  by. 
Bazarov  went  on  obstinately  and  grimly  work- 
ing .  .  .  and  meanwhile  there  was  in  Nikolai 
Petrovitch's  house  one  creature  to  whom,  if  he 
did  not  open  his  heart,  he  at  least  was  glad  to 
talk.  .  .  .  That  creature  was  Fenitchka. 

He  used  to  meet  her  for  the  most  part  early 
in  the  morning,  in  the  garden,  or  the  farmyard; 
he  never  used  to  go  to  her  room  to  see  her,  and 
she  had  only  once  been  to  his  door  to  inquire — 
ought  she  to  let  Mitya  have  his  bath  or  not  ? 
It  was  not  only  that  she  confided  in  him,  that 
she  was  not  afraid  of  him — she  was  positively 
freer  and  more  at  her  ease  in  her  behaviour  with 
him  than  with  Nikolai  Petrovitch  himself  It  is 
hard  to  say  how  it  came  about ;  perhaps  it  was 
because  she  unconsciously  felt  the  absence  in 
Bazarov  of  all  gentility,  of  all  that  superiority 

354 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

which  at  once  attracts  and  overawes.  In  her  Gyes 
he  was  both  an  excellent  doctor  and  a  simple  man. 
She  looked  after  her  baby  without  constraint  in 
his  presence ;  and  once  when  she  was  suddenly 
attacked  with  giddiness  and  headache — she 
took  a  spoonful  of  medicine  from  his  hand. 
Before  Nikolai  Petrovitch  she  kept,  as  it  were, 
at  a  distance  from  Bazarov ;  she  acted  in  this 
way  not  from  hypocrisy,  but  from  a  kind  of 
feeling  of  propriety.  Pavel  Petrovitch  she  was 
more  afraid  of  than  ever  ;  for  some  time  he  had 
begun  to  watch  her,  and  would  suddenly  make 
his  appearance,  as  though  he  sprang  out  of  the 
earth  behind  her  back,  in  his  English  suit,  with 
his  immovable  vigilant  face,  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  *  It 's  like  a  bucket  of  cold  water  on 
one,'  Fenitchka  complained  to  Dunyasha,  and 
the  latter  sighed  in  response,  and  thought  of 
another  *  heartless '  man.  Bazarov,  without  the 
least  suspicion  of  the  fact,  had  become  the  cruel 
tyrant  of  her  heart. 

Fenitchka  liked  Bazarov;  but  he  liked 
her  too.  His  face  was  positively  trans- 
formed when  he  talked  to  her ;  it  took  a 
bright,  almost  kind  expression,  and  his  habi- 
tual nonchalance  was  replaced  by  a  sort  of 
jesting  attentiveness.  Fenitchka  was  growing 
prettier  every  day.  There  is  a  time  in  the  life 
of  young  women  when  they  suddenly  begin  to 

255 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

expand  and  blossom  like  summer  roses  ;  this 
time  had  come  for  Fenitchka.  Dressed  in  a 
delicate  white  dress,  she  seemed  herself  slighter 
and  whiter  ;  she  was  not  tanned  by  the  sun ; 
but  the  heat,  from  which  she  could  not  shield 
herself,  spread  a  slight  flush  over  her  cheeks  and 
cars,  and,  shedding  a  soft  indolence  over  her 
whole  body,  was  reflected  in  a  dreamy  languor 
in  her  pretty  eyes.  She  was  almost  unable  to 
work ;  her  hands  seem  to  fall  naturally  into 
her  lap.  She  scarcely  walked  at  all,  and  way 
constantly  sighing  and  complaining  with  comic 
helplessness. 

*You  should  go  oftener  to  bathe,  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  told  her.  He  had  made  a  large 
bath  covered  in  with  an  awning  in  the  one  of  his 
ponds  which  had  not  yet  quite  disappeared. 

*0h,  Nikolai  Petrovitch!  But  by  the  time 
one  gets  to  the  pond,  one 's  utterly  dead,  and, 
coming  back,  one's  dead  again.  You  see,  there 's 
no  shade  in  the  garden.' 

*  That's  true,  there's  no  shade,'  replied 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  rubbing  his  forehead. 

One   day  at  seven   o'clock  in  the  morning 

Bazarov,   returning   from   a   walk,   came   upon 

Fenitchka  in  the  lilac  arbour,  which  was  long 

past  flowering,  but  was  still  thick  and   green. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  garden  seat,  and  had 

as   usual    thrown    a    white    kerchief  over  her 

256 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

head  ;  near  her  lay  a  whole  heap  of  red  and 
white  roses  still  wet  with  dew.  He  said  good 
morning  to  her. 

*  Ah  !  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch  ! '  she  said,  and 
lifted  the  edge  of  her  kerchief  a  little  to  look 
at  him,  in  doing  which  her  arm  was  left  bare  to 
the  elbow. 

'What  are  you  doing  here?'  said  Bazarov, 
sitting  down  beside  her.  *  Are  you  making  a 
nosegay  ? ' 

*  Yes,  for  the  table  at  lunch.  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch  likes  it' 

'But  it's  a  long  while  yet  to  lunch  time. 
What  a  heap  of  flowers  ! ' 

'  I  gathered  them  now,  for  it  will  be  hot  then, 
and  one  can't  go  out.  One  can  only  just 
breathe  now.  I  feel  quite  weak  with  the  heat 
I  'm  really  afraid  whether  I  'm  not  going  to  be 
ill.' 

*  What  an  idea !  Let  me  feel  your  pulse.' 
Bazarov  took  her  hand,  felt  for  the  evenly-beating 
pulse,  but  did  not  even  begin  to  count  its 
throbs.  *  You  '11  live  a  hundred  years ! '  he  said^ 
dropping  her  hand. 

Ah,  God  forbid  ! '  she  cried. 

*  Why  ?     Don't  you  want  a  long  life  ? ' 

*  Well,  but  a  hundred  years  !  There  was  an 
old  woman  near  us  eighty-five  years  old — and 
what  a  martyr  she  was  !     Dirty  and  deaf  and 

257  R 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

bent  and  coughing  all  the  time ;  nothing  but  a 
burden  to  herself.     That 's  a  dreadful  life  I  * 

*  So  it 's  better  to  be  young  ?  * 
'Well,  isn't  it?* 

*  But  why  is  it  better  ?     Tell  me  I ' 

*  How  can  you  ask  why  ?  Why,  here  I  now, 
while  I  'm  young,  I  can  do  everything — go 
and  come  and  carry,  and  needn't  ask  any  one  for 
anything.  .  .  :  What  can  be  better  ? ' 

*  And  to  me  it 's  all  the  same  whether  I  'm 
young  or  old.' 

*  How  do  you  mean — it 's  all  the  same  ?  1 1  s 
not  possible  what  you  say.' 

*  Well,  judge  for  yourself,  Fedosya  Nikolaevna, 
what  good  is  my  youth  to  me.  I  live  alone,  a 
poor  lonely  creature  .  .  .' 

*  That  always  depends  on  you.' 

*  It  doesn't  at  all  depend  on  me  !  At  least, 
some  one  ought  to  take  pity  on  me.' 

Fenitchka  gave  a  sidelong  look  at  Bazarov, 
but  said  nothing.  *  What 's  this  book  you  have  ? ' 
she  asked  after  a  short  pause. 

*  That  ?  That 's  a  scientific  book,  very  difficult* 

*  And  are  you  still  studying  ?  And  don't  you 
find  it  dull  ?  You  know  everything  already  I 
should  say.' 

*  It  seems  not  everything.  You  try  to  read 
a  little.' 

*  But  I  don't  understand  anything  here.     Is 

258 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

it  Russian  ? '  asked  Fenitchka,  taking  the  heavily 
bound  book  in  both  hands.     *  How  thick  it  is  ! ' 

*  Yes,  it 's  Russian.' 

*A11  the  same,  I  shan't  understand  anything.' 

'  Well,  I  didn't  give  it  you  for  you  to  under- 
stand it  I  wanted  to  look  at  you  while  you 
were  reading.  When  you  read,  the  end  of  your 
little  nose  moves  so  nicely.' 

Fenitchka,  who  had  set  to  work  to  spell  out 
in  a  low  voice  the  article  on  *  Creosote '  she  had 
chanced  upon,  laughed  and  threw  down  the 
book  ...  it  slipped  from  the  seat  on  to  the 
ground. 

'  I  like  it  too  when  you  laugh,'  observed 
Bazarov. 

*  Nonsense  ! ' 

'  I  like  it  when  you  talk.  It 's  just  like  a 
little  brook  babbling.' 

Fenitchka  turned  her  head  away.  *  What  a 
person  you  are  to  talk  ! '  she  commented,  picking 
the  flowers  over  with  her  finger.  *  And  how  can 
you  care  to  listen  to  me  .-*  You  have  talked 
with  such  clever  ladies.' 

'  Ah,  Fedosya  Nikolaevna !  believe  me ;  all 
the  clever  ladies  in  the  world  are  not  worth  your 
little  elbow.' 

*Come,  there 's  another  invention  ! '  murmured 
Fenitchka,  clasping  her  hands. 

Bazarov  picked  the  book  up  from  the  ground 

259 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

'  That 's  a  medical  book  ;  why  do  you  throw  it 
away  ? ' 

'  Medical  ? '  repeated  Fenitchka,  and  she 
turned  to  him  again.  *  Do  you  know,  ever 
since  you  gave  me  those  drops — do  you  remem- 
ber ? — Mitya  has  slept  so  well !  I  really  can't 
think  how  to  thank  you  ;  you  are  so  good, 
really.* 

'But  you  have  to  pay  doctors,'  observed 
Bazarov  with  a  smile.  *  Doctors,  you  know 
yourself,  are  grasping  people.' 

Fenitchka  raised  her  eyes,  which  seemed 
still  darker  from  the  whitish  reflection  cast 
on  the  upper  part  of  her  face,  and  looked  at 
Bazarov.  She  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
joking  or  not. 

'  If  you  please,  we  shall  be  delighted.  ...  I 
must  ask  Nikolai  Petrovitch  .  .  .' 

*  Why,  do  you  think  I  want  money  ?  *  Bazarov 
interposed.  *  No ;  I  don't  want  money  from 
you.' 

'  What  then  ? '  asked  Fenitchka. 

*  What  ? '  repeated  Bazarov.     *  Guess  I 

*  A  likely  person  I  am  to  guess  ! ' 

'  Well,  I  will  tell  you  ;  I  want  .  .  one  of 
those  roses.* 

Fenitchka  laughed  again,  and  even  clapped 

her  hands,  so  amusing  Bazarov's  request  seemed 

to  her.     She  laughed,  and  at  the  same  time  felt 

260 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

flattered.  Bazarov  was  looking  intently  at 
her. 

'  By  all  means,'  she  said  at  last ;  and,  bending 
down  to  the  seat,  she  began  picking  over  the 
roses.  '  Which  will  you  have-— a  red  or  a  white 
one  ? ' 

'  Red,  and  not  too  large/ 

She  sat  up  again.  *  Here,  take  it,'  she  said, 
but  at  once  drew  back  her  outstretched  hand, 
and,  biting  her  lips,  looked  towards  the  entrance 
of  the  arbour,  then  listened. 

*  What  is  it  ? '  asked  Bazarov.  *  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch  ? ' 

*  No  .  .  .  Mr.  Kirsanov  has  gone  to  the  fields 
.  .  .  besides,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  him  .  ,  .  but 
Pavel  Petrovitch  ...  I  fancied  .  .  .' 

*  What  > ' 

*  I  fancied  he  was  coming  here.  No  ...  it 
was  no  one.  Take  it.*  Fenitchka  gave  Bazarov 
the  rose. 

'  On  what  grounds  are  you  afraid  of  Pavel 
Petrovitch  ? ' 

'  He  always  scares  me.  And  I  know  you 
don't  like  him.  Do  you  remember,  you  always 
used  to  quarrel  with  him  ?  I  don't  know  what 
your  quarrel  was  about,  but  I  can  see  you  turn 
him  about  like  this  and  like  that' 

Fenitchka  showed  with  her  hands  how  in  her 

opinion  Bazarov  turned  Pavel  Petrovitch  about 

761 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Bazarov  smiled.  'But  if  he  gave  me  a 
beating/  he  asked,  'would  you  stand  up  for 
me?' 

'  How  could  I  stand  up  for  you  ?  but  no,  no 
one  will  get  the  better  of  you.' 

'  Do  you  think  so  ?  But  I  know  a  hand 
which  could  overcome  me  if  it  liked.' 

'What  hand?' 

'  Why,  don't  you  know,  really  ?  Smell,  how 
delicious  this  rose  smells  you  gave  me.' 

Fenitchka  stretched  her  little  neck  forward, 
and  put  her  face  close  to  the  flower.  .  .  .  The 
kerchief  slipped  from  her  head  onto  her  shoulders; 
her  soft  mass  of  dark,  shining,  slightly  ruffled 
hair  was  visible. 

*  Wait  a  minute ;  I  want  to  smell  it  with  you,' 
said  Bazarov.  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
vigorously  on  her  parted  lips. 

She  started,  pushed  him  back  with  both  her 
hands  on  his  breast,  but  pushed  feebly,  and  he 
was  able  to  renew  and  prolong  his  kiss. 

A    dry  cough   was   heard   behind   the   lilac 

bushes.     Fenitchka   instantly   moved   away  to 

the  other  end  of  the   seat      Pavel  Petrovitch 

showed  himself,  made  a  slight  bow,  and  saying 

with  a  sort  of  malicious  mournfulness,  *  You  are 

here,'  he  retreated.     Fenitchka  at  once  gathered 

up  all  her  roses  and  went  out  of  the  arbour. 

'  It  was  wrong  of  you,  Yevgeny  Vassilyevitch,' 

262 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

she  whispered  as  she  went.  There  was  a  note 
of  genuine  reproach  in  her  whisper. 

Bazarov  remembered  another  recent  scene, 
and  he  felt  both  shame  and  contemptuous 
annoyance.  But  he  shook  his  head  directly, 
ironically  congratulated  himself  *on  his  final 
assumption  of  the  part  of  the  gay  Lothario,' 
and  went  off  to  his  own  room. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  went  out  of  the  garden,  and 
made  his  way  with  deliberate  steps  to  the  copse. 
He  stayed  there  rather  a  long  while  ;  and  when 
he  returned  to  lunch,  Nikolai  Petrovitch  in- 
quired anxiously  whether  he  were  quite  well — 
his  face  looked  so  gloomy, 

'  You  know,  I  sometimes  suffer  with  my  liver,' 
Pavel  Petrovitch  answered  tranquilly. 


*5S 


XXIV 

Two  hours  later  he  knocked  at  Bazarov's  door. 
'  I  must  apologise  for  hindering  you  in  your 
scientific  pursuits/  he  began,  seating  himself  on 
a  chair  in  the  window,  and  leaning  with  both 
hands  on  a  handsome  walking-stick  with  an 
ivory  knob  (he  usually  walked  without  a  stick), 
'  but  I  am  constrained  to  beg  you  to  spare  me 
five  minutes  of  your  time  ...  no  more.' 

*  All  my  time  is  at  your  disposal,'  answered 
Bazarov,  over  whose  face  there  passed  a  quick 
change  of  expression  directly  Pavel  Petrovitch 
crossed  the  threshold. 

*  Five  minutes  will  be  enough  for  me.  I  have 
come  to  put  a  single  question  to  you.' 

*  A  question  ?     What  is  it  about  ? ' 

*  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  will  kindly  hear  me 
out.  At  the  commencement  of  your  stay  in  my 
brother's  house,  before  I  had  renounced  the 
pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  it  was  my 
fortune  to  hear  your  opinions  on  many  sub- 
jects ;  but  so  far  as  my  memory  serves,  neither 

204 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

between  us,  nor  in  my  presence,  was  the  sub- 
ject of  single  combats  and  duelling  in  general 
broached.      Allow  me  to  hear  what  are  your 
views  on  that  subject  ? ' 

Bazarov,  who  had  risen  to  meet  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch,  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and 
folded  his  arms. 

*  My  view  is/  he  said,  '  that  from  the  theo- 
retical standpoint,  duelling  is  absurd ;  from  the 
practical  standpoint,  now — it 's  quite  a  different 
matter.' 

'  That  is,  you  mean  to  say,  if  I  understand 
you  right,  that  whatever  your  theoretical  views 
on  duelling,  you  would  not  in  practice  allow 
yourself  to  be  insulted  without  demanding  satis- 
faction ? ' 

'  You  have  guessed  my  meaning  absolutely.' 

*  Very  good.  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say 
so.  Your  words  relieve  me  from  a  state  of 
incertitude.' 

*  Of  uncertainty,  you  mean  to  say.* 

*  That  is  all  the  same  ;  I  express  myself  so  as 
to  be  understood  ;  I  .  .  .  am  not  a  seminary 
rat.  Your  words  save  me  from  a  rather  de- 
plorable necessity.  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  fight  you.' 

Bazarov  opened  his  eyes  wide.     '  Me  ?  * 

*  Undoubtedly.* 

*  But  what  for,  pray  ? 

265 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

*  I  could  explain  the  reason  to  you,'  began 
Pavel  Petrovitch,  '  but  I  prefer  to  be  silent 
about  it  To  my  idea  your  presence  here  is 
superfluous  ;  I  cannot  endure  you ;  I  despise 
you ;  and  if  that  is  not  enough  for  you  .      . ' 

Pavel  Petrovitch's  eyes  glittered  . . .  Bazarov's 
too  were  flashing. 

*  Very  good/  he  assented.  *  No  need  of 
further  explanations.  You  've  a  whim  to  try 
your  chivalrous  spirit  upon  me.  I  might  refuse 
you  this  pleasure,  but — so  be  it !  * 

'  I  am  sensible  of  my  obligation  to  you,'  replied 
Pavel  Petrovitch  ;  '  and  may  reckon  then  on 
your  accepting  my  challenge  without  compel- 
ling me  to  resort  to  violent  measures.' 

*  That  means,  speaking  without  metaphor,  to 
that  stick  ? '  Bazarov  remarked  coolly.  '  That 
is  precisely  correct.  It 's  quite  unnecessary  for 
you  to  insult  me.  Indeed,  it  would  not  be  a 
perfectly  safe  proceeding.  You  can  remain  a 
gentleman.  .  .  I  accept  your  challenge,  too, 
like  a  gentleman.' 

*  That  is  excellent,'  observed  Pavel  Petrovitch, 
putting  his  stick  in  the  comer.  *  We  will  say  a 
few  words  directly  about  the  conditions  of  our 
duel ;  but  I  should  like  first  to  know  whether  you 
think  it  necessary  to  resort  to  the  formality  of 
a  trifling  dispute,  which  might  serve  as  a  pre- 
text for  my  challenge  ? ' 

266 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

No  ;  it 's  better  without  formalities.' 

*  I  think  so  myself.  I  presume  it  is  also  out 
of  place  to  go  into  the  real  grounds  of  our 
difference.  We  cannot  endure  one  another. 
What  more  is  necessary  ? ' 

'  What  more,  indeed  ?  *  repeated  Bazarov 
ironically. 

*  As  regards  the  conditions  of  the  meeting 
itself,  seeing  that  we  shall  have  no  seconds — for 
where  could  we  get  them  ? ' 

'  Exactly  so ;  where  could  we  get  them  ? ' 

*  Then  I  have  the  honour  to  lay  the  following 
proposition  before  you  :  The  combat  to  take 
place  early  to-morrow,  at  six,  let  us  say,  behind 
the  copse,  with  pistols,  at  a  distance  of  ten 
paces.  .  .  .' 

'  At  ten  paces  ?  that  will  do ;  we  hate  one 
another  at  that  distance.' 

*  We  might  have  it  eight,'  remarked  Pavel 
Petrovitch. 

'  We  might' 

'  To  fire  twice  ;  and,  to  be  ready  for  any 
result,  let  each  put  a  letter  in  his  pocket,  in 
which  he  accuses  himself  of  his  end.' 

'  Now,  that  I  don't  approve  of  at  all,'  observed 
Bazarov.  *  There 's  a  slight  flavour  of  the 
French  novel  about  it,  something  not  very 
plausible.' 

'  Perhaps.     You  will  agree,  however,  that  it 

267 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

would  be  unpleasant  to  incur  a  suspicion  of 
murder  ? ' 

'  I  agree  as  to  that.  But  there  is  a  means  oi 
avoiding  that  painful  reproach.  We  shall  have 
no  seconds,  but  we  can  have  a  witness.' 

'  And  whom,  allow  me  to  inquire  ? 

'  Why,  Piotr.' 

*  What  Piotr  ? ' 

*  Your  brother's  valet.  He 's  a  man  who  has 
attained  to  the  acme  of  contemporary  culture, 
and  he  will  perform  his  part  with  all  the 
coniilfo  (comme  il  fauf)  necessary  in  such 
cases.' 

'  I  think  you  are  joking,  sir.' 

*  Not  at  all.  If  you  think  over  my  suggestion, 
you  will  be  convinced  that  it 's  full  of  common- 
sense  and  simplicity.  You  can't  hide  a  candle 
under  a  bushel ;  but  I  '11  undertake  to  prepare 
Piotr  in  a  fitting  manner,  and  bring  him  on  to 
the  field  of  battle.' 

*  You  persist  in  jesting  still,'  Pavel  Petrovitch 
declared,  getting  up  from  his  chair.  '  But  after 
the  courteous  readiness  you  have  shown  me,  I 
have  no  right  to  pretend  to  lay  down.  ...  And 
so,  everything  is  arranged.  .  ,  .  By  the  way, 
perhaps  you  have  no  pistols  ? ' 

*  How  should  I  have  pistols,  Pavel  Petrovitch  ? 
I  'm  not  in  the  army.' 

*  In  that  case,  I  offer  you  mine.     You  may 

268 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

rest  assured  that  it 's  five  years  now  since  I  shot 
with  them.' 

*  That 's  a  very  consoling  piece  of  news.' 
Pavel  Petrovitch  took  up  his  stick.  .  .  .  '  And 

now,  my  dear  sir,  it  only  remains  for  me  to 
thank  you  and  to  leave  you  to  your  studies.  I 
have  the  honour  to  take  leave  of  you.' 

*  Till  we  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  again, 
my  dear  sir,'  said  Bazarov,  conducting  his  visitor 
to  the  door. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  went  out,  while  Bazarov 
remained  standing  a  minute  before  the  door, 
and  suddenly  exclaimed,  *  Pish,  well,  I  *m 
dashed  !  how  fine,  and  how  foolish  !  A  pretty 
farce  we  've  been  thi  ough  !  Like  trained  dogs 
dancing  on  their  hind-paws.  But  to  decline 
was  out  of  the  question  ;  why,  I  do  believe  he  'd 
have  struck  me,  and  then  .  .  .'  (Bazarov  turned 
white  at  the  very  thought ;  all  his  pride  was  up 
in  arms  at  once) — '  then  it  might  have  come  to 
my  strangling  him  like  a  cat'  He  went  back 
to  his  microscope,  but  his  heart  was  beating, 
and  the  composure  necessary  for  taking  observa- 
tions had  disappeared.  *  He  caught  sight  of  us 
to-day,'  he  thought ;  '  but  would  he  really  act 
like  this  on  his  brother's  account  ?  And  what 
a  mighty  matter  is  it — a  kiss  ?  There  must  be 
something  else  in  it.     Bah  !  isn't  he  perhaps  in 

love  with   her  himself?     To  be  sure,  he's  in 

269 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

love  ;  it  *s  as  clear  as  day.  What  a  complica- 
tion !  It 's  a  nuisance  ! '  he  decided  at  last ; 
'  it 's  a  bad  job,  look  at  it  which  way  you  will. 
In  the  first  place,  to  risk  a  bullet  through  one's 
brains,  and  in  any  case  to  go  away ;  and  then 
Arkady  .  .  .  and  that  dear  innocent  pussy, 
Nikolai  Petrovitch.  It 's  a  bad  job,  an  awfully 
bad  job.' 

The  day  passed  in  a  kind  of  peculiar  stillness 
and  languor.  Fenitchka  gave  no  sign  of  her 
existence  ;  she  sat  in  her  little  room  like  a 
mouse  in  its  hole.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  a 
careworn  air.  He  had  just  heard  that  blight 
had  begun  to  appear  in  his  wheat,  upon  which 
he  had  in  particular  rested  his  hopes.  Pavel 
Petrovitch  overwhelmed  every  one,  even  Proko- 
fitch,  with  his  icy  courtesy.  Bazarov  began  a 
letter  to  his  father,  but  tore  it  up,  and  threw  it 
under  the  table. 

*  If  I  die,'  he  thought/  *  they  will  find  it  out; 
but  I  'm  not  going  to  die.  No,  I  shall  struggle 
along  in  this  world  a  good  while  yet'  He 
gave  Piotr  orders  to  come  to  him  on  important 
business  the  next  morning  directly  it  was  light 
Piotr  imagined  that  he  wanted  to  take  him  to 
Petersburg  with  him.  Bazarov  went  late  to 
bed,  and  all  night  long  he  was  harassed  by  dis- 
ordered dreams.  .  .  .   Madame  Odintsov  kept 

appearing   in   them,  now  she  was  his  mother, 

270 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

and  she  was  followed  by  a  kitten  with  black 
whiskers,  and  this  kitten  seemed  to  be  Fen- 
itchka ;  then  Pavel  Petrovitch  took  the  shape 
of  a  great  wood,  with  which  he  had  yet  to  fight. 
Piotr  waked  him  up  at  four  o'clock ;  he  dressed 
at  once,  and  went  out  with  him. 

It  was  a  lovely,  fresh  morning ;  tiny  flecked 
clouds  hovered  overhead  in  little  curls  of  foam  on 
the  pale  clear  blue ;  a  fine  dew  lay  in  drops  on 
the  leaves  and  grass,  and  sparkled  like  silver  on 
the  spiders'  webs  ;  the  damp,  dark  earth  seemed 
still  to  keep  traces  of  the  rosy  dawn ;  from  the 
whole  sky  the  songs  of  larks  came  pouring  in 
showers.  Bazarov  walked  as  far  as  the  copse, 
sat  down  in  the  shade  at  its  edge,  and  only  then 
disclosed  to  Piotr  the  nature  of  the  service  he 
expected  of  him.  The  refined  valet  was  mortally 
alarmed  ;  but  Bazarov  soothed  him  by  the 
assurance  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do 
but  stand  at  a  distance  and  look  on,  and  that 
he  would  not  incur  any  sort  of  responsi- 
bility. *  And  meantime,'  he  added,  *  only  think 
what  an  important  part  you  have  to  play  ! ' 
Piotr  threw  up  his  hands,  looked  down,  and 
leaned  against  a  birch-tree,  looking  green  with 
terror. 

The  road  from  Maryino  skirted  the  copse ;  a 
light  dust  lay  on  it,  untouched  by  wheel  or  foot 
since  the  previous  day.     Bazarov  unconsciously 

271 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

stared  along  this  road,  picked  and  gnawed  a 
blade  of  grass,  while  he  kept  repeating  to  him- 
self, *  What  a  piece  of  foolery  ! '  The  chill  of  the 
early  morning  made  him  shiver  twice.  .  .  .  Piotr 
looked  at  him  dejectedly,  but  Bazarov  only 
smiled  ;  he  was  not  afraid. 

The  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  was  heard  along 
the  road.  ...  A  peasant  came  into  sight  from 
behind  the  trees.  He  was  driving  before  him 
two  horses  hobbled  together,  and  as  he  passed 
Bazarov  he  looked  at  him  rather  strangely, 
without  touching  his  cap,  which  it  was  easy 
to  see  disturbed  Piotr,  as  an  unlucky  omen. 
*  There 's  some  one  else  up  early  too,'  thought 
Bazarov ;  *  but  he  at  least  has  got  up  for  work, 
while  we  .  ,  .' 

*  'Fancy  the  gentleman 's  coming,'  Piotr  fal- 
tered suddenly. 

Bazarov  raised  his  head  and  saw  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch.  Dressed  in  a  light  check  jacket  and 
snow-white  trousers,  he  was  walking  rapidly 
along  the  road  ;  under  his  arm  he  carried  a  box 
wrapped  up  in  green  cloth. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  believe  I  have  kept  you 

waiting,'  he  observed,  bowing  first  to  Bazarov, 

then  to  Piotr,  whom  he  treated  respectfully  at 

that  instant,  as  representing  something  in  the 

nature  of  a  second.     *  I  was  unwilling  to  wake 

my  maa' 

372 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  It  doesn't  matter/  answered  Bazarov;  '  we  've 
only  just  arrived  ourselves.' 

*  Ah !  so  much  the  better  !  *  Pavel  Petrovitch 
took  a  look  round.  *  There 's  no  one  in  sight ; 
no  one  hinders  us.     We  can  proceed  ?  * 

*  Let  us  proceed.' 

*  You  do  not,  I  presume,  desire  any  fresh 
explanations  ? ' 

*  No,  I  don't' 

*  Would  you  like  to  load  ? '  inquired  Pavel 
Petrovitch,  taking  the  pistols  out  of  the  box. 

*  No ;  you  load,  and  I  will  measure  out  the 
paces.  My  legs  are  longer,'  added  Bazarov  with 
a  smile.     '  One,  two,  three.' 

'  Yevgeny  Vassilyevitch,'  Piotr  faltered  with 
an  effort  (he  was  shaking  as  though  he  were  in 
a  fever),  '  say  what  you  like,  I  am  going  farther 
off.- 

'  Four  .  .  .  five.  .  . .  Good.  Move  away,  my 
good  fellow,  move  away ;  you  may  get  behind  a 
tree  even,  and  stop  up  your  ears,  only  don't  shut 
your  eyes ;  and  if  any  one  falls,  run  and  pick 
him  up.  Six  .  .  .  seven  .  .  .  eight  .  .  .'  Bazarov 
stopped.  *  Is  that  enough  ? '  he  said,  turning 
to  Pavel  Petrovitch ;  *  or  shall  I  add  two  paces 
more  ? ' 

'  As  you  like,'  replied  the  latter,  pressing  down 
the  second  bullet. 

*  Well,    we  '11    make    it    two    paces    more.' 

273  s 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Bazarov  drew  a  line  on  the  ground  with  the  tcs 
of  his  boot  *  There 's  the  barrier  then.  By 
the  way,  how  many  paces  may  each  of  us  go 
back  from  the  barrier  ?  That 's  an  important 
question  too.  That  point  was  not  discussed 
yesterday.' 

*  I  imagine,  ten,*  replied  Pavel  Petrovitch, 
handing  Bazarov  both  pistols.  '  Will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  choose  ? ' 

'  I  will  be  so  good.  But,  Pavel  Petrovitch, 
you  must  admit  our  combat  is  singular  to  the 
point  of  absurdity.  Only  look  at  the  counten- 
ance of  our  second.' 

*  You  are  disposed  to  laugh  at  everything,* 
answered  Pavel  Petrovitch.  '  I  acknowledge 
the  strangeness  of  our  duel,  but  I  think  it  my 
duty  to  warn  you  that  I  intend  to  fight  seriously. 
A  bon  entendeur^  salut ! ' 

*  Oh  !  I  don't  doubt  that  we  *ve  made  up  our 
minds  to  make  away  with  each  other ;  but  why 
not  laugh  too  and  unite  utile  dulcil  You  talk 
to  me  in  French,  while  I  talk  to  you  in  Latin.' 

*  I  am  going  to  fight  in  earnest,'  repeated 
Pavel  Petrovitch,  and  he  walked  off  to  his  place. 
Bazarov  on  his  side  counted  off  ten  paces  from 
the  barrier,  and  stood  still. 

*  Are  you  ready  ? '  asked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 
'  Perfectly.' 

*  We  can  approach  one  another.* 

274 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Bazarov  moved  slowly  forward,  and  Pavel 
Petrovitch,  his  left  hand  thrust  in  his  pocketj 
walked  towards  him,  gradually  raising  the 
muzzle  of  his  pistol.  ...  *  He 's  aiming  straight 
at  my  nose,'  thought  Bazarov,  *  and  doesn't  he 
blink  down  it  carefully,  the  rufifian !  Not  an 
agreeable  sensation  though.  I  'm  going  to  look 
at  his  watch  chain.* 

Something  whizzed  sharply  by  his  very  ear, 
and  at  the  same  instant  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  shot.  *  I  heard  it,  so  it  must  be  all  right,' 
had  time  to  flash  through  Bazarov's  brain.  He 
took  one  more  step,  and  without  taking  aim, 
pressed  the  spring. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  gave  a  slight  start,  and 
clutched  at  his  thigh.  A  stream  of  blood 
began  to  trickle  down  his  white  trousers. 

Bazarov  flung  aside  the  pistol,  and  went  up 
to  his  antagonist  'Are  you  wounded?'  he 
said. 

'You  had  the  right  to  call  me  up  to  the 
barrier,'  said  Pavel  Petrovitch, '  but  that 's  of  no 
consequence.  According  to  our  agreement,  each 
of  us  has  the  right  to  one  more  shot' 

*  All  right,  but,  excuse  me,  that  '11  do  another 
time,'  answered  Bazarov,  catching  hold  of 
Pavel  Petrovitch,  who  was  beginning  to  turn 
pale.  '  Now,  I  'm  not  a  duellist,  but  a  doctor, 
nnd  I  must  have  a  look  at  your  wound  before 

275 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

anything  else.  Piotr  !  come  here,  Piotr!  where 
have  you  got  to  ? ' 

'  That 's  all  nonsense.  ...  I  need  no  one's  aid,' 
Pavel  Petrovitch  declared  jerkily,  *  and  ...  we 
must  .  .  .  again  .  .  .'  He  tried  to  pull  at  his 
moustaches,  but  his  hand  failed  him,  his  eyes 
grew  dim,  and  he  lost  consciousness. 

*  Here 's  a  pretty  pass  !  A  fainting  fit !  What 
next ! '  Bazarov  cried  unconsciously,  as  he  laid 
Pavel  Petrovitch  on  the  grass.  '  Let's  have  a 
look  what 's  wrong.'  He  pulled  out  a  handker- 
chief, wiped  away  the  blood,  and  began  feeling 
round  the  wound.  .  .  .  'The  bone's  not 
touched,'  he  muttered  through  his  teeth  ;  *  the 
ball  didn't  go  deep  ;  one  muscle,  vastus  externus^ 
grazed.  He  '11  be  dancing  about  in  three  weeks ! 
.  .  .  And  to  faint !  Oh,  these  nervous  people, 
how  I  hate  them  !  My  word,  what  a  delicate 
skin!' 

'  Is  he  killed  ? '  the  quaking  voice  of  Piotr 
came  rustling  behind  his  back. 

Bazarov  looked  round.  *  Go  for  some  water 
as  quick  as  you  can,  my  good  fellow,  and  he  '11 
outlive  us  yet' 

But  the  modern  servant  seemed  not  to  under- 
stand his  words,  and  he  did  not  stir.  Pavel 
Petrovitch  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  '  He  will 
die ! '  whispered  Piotr,  and  he  began  crossing 

himself. 

276 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  You  are  right.  .  .  .  What  an  imbecile  coun- 
tenance ! '  remarked  the  wounded  gentleman 
with  a  forced  smile. 

*  Well,  go  for  the  water,  damn  you  ! '  shouted 
Bazarov. 

*  No  need.  ...  It  was  a  momentary  vertigo, 
.  .  .  Help  me  to  sit  up  .  .  .  there,  that 's  right. 
.  .  .  I  only  need  something  to  bind  up  this 
scratch,  and  I  can  reach  home  on  foot,  or  else 
you  can  send  a  droshky  for  me.  The  duel,  if 
you  are  willing,  shall  not  be  renewed.  You  have 
behaved  honourably  .  .  .  to-day,  to-day — ob- 
serve.' 

*  There  's  no  need  to  recall  the  past,'  rejoined 
Bazarov ;  *  and  as  regards  the  future,  it 's 
not  worth  while  for  you  to  trouble  your  head 
about  that  either,  for  I  intend  being  off  without 
delay.  Let  me  bind  up  your  leg  now  ;  your 
wound 's  not  serious,  but  it 's  always  best  to  stop 
bleeding.  But  first  I  must  bring  this  corpse  to 
his  senses.' 

Bazarov  shook  Piotr  by  the  collar,  and  sent 
him  for  a  droshky. 

*  Mind  you  don't  frighten  my  brother,'  Pavel 
Petrovitch  said  to  him  ;  '  don't  dream  of  inform- 
ing him.' 

Piotr  flew  off;  and  while  he  was  running  for 
a  droshky,  the  two  antagonists  sat  on  the  ground 
and  said  nothing.     Pavel   Petrovitch  tried  not 

277 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

to  look  at  Bazarov ;  he  did  not  want  to  be 
reconciled  to  him  in  any  case ;  he  was  ashamed 
of  his  own  haughtiness,  of  his  failure  ;  he  was 
ashamed  of  the  whole  position  he  had  brought 
about,  even  while  he  felt  it  could  not  have 
ended  in  a  more  favourable  manner.  *At 
any  rate,  there  will  be  no  scandal,'  he  con- 
soled himself  by  reflecting,  '  and  for  that  I 
am  thankful.'  The  silence  was  prolonged,  a 
silence  distressing  and  awkward.  Both  of  them 
were  ill  at  ease.  Each  was  conscious  that  the 
other  understood  him.  That  is  pleasant  to 
friends,  and  always  very  unpleasant  to  those 
who  are  not  friends,  especially  when  it 
is  impossible  either  to  have  things  out  or  to 
separate. 

*  Haven't  I  ^Dound  up  your  leg  too  tight  ? ' 
inquired  Bazarov  at  last. 

*  No,  not  at  all ;  it 's  capital,'  answered  Pavel 
Petrovitch  ;  and  after  a  brief  pause,  he  added, 
'There 's  no  deceiving  my  brother;  we  shall  have 
to  tell  him  we  quarrelled  over  politics.' 

*  Very  good,'  assented  Bazarov.  *  You  can  say 
I  insulted  all  anglomaniacs.' 

'That    will    do    capitally.      What    do    you 

imagine  that  man  thinks  of  us  now  ?  '  continued 

Pavel  Petrovitch,  pointing  to  the  same  peasant, 

who  had  driven  the  hobbled  horses  past  Bazarov 

a  few  minutes  before  the  duel,  and  going  back 

278 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

again  along  the  road,  took  off  his  cap  at  the 
sight  of  the  *  gentlefolk.' 

*  Who  can  tell ! '  answered  Bazarov  ;  *  it  s 
quite  likely  he  thinks  nothing.  The  Russian 
peasant  is  that  mysterious  unknown  about  whom 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  used  to  talk  so  much.  Who  is 
to  understand  him !  He  doesn't  understand 
himself!' 

*  Ah !  so  that 's  your  idea  ! '  Pavel  Petrovitch 
began  ;  and  suddenly  he  cried,  '  Look  what  your 
fool  of  a  Piotr  has  done !  Here 's  my  brother 
gallopping  up  to  us  I ' 

Bazarov  turned  round  and  saw  the  pale  face 
of  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  who  was  sitting  in  the 
droshky.  He  jumped  out  of  it  before  it  had 
stopped,  and  rushed  up  to  his  brother. 

'  What  does  this  mean  ? '  he  said  in  an 
agitated  voice.  *  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  pray, 
what  is  this  ? ' 

'  Nothing,'  answered  Pavel  Petrovitch  ;  *  they 
have  alarmed  you  for  nothing.  I  had  a  little 
dispute  with  Mr.  Bazarov,  and  I  have  had  to 
pay  for  it  a  little.' 

*  But  what  was  it  all  about,  mercy  on  us ! ' 

*  How  can  I  tell  you  ?  Mr.  Bazarov  alluded 
disrespectfully  to  Sir  Robert  Peel.  I  must 
hasten  to  add  that  I  am  the  only  person  to 
blame  in  all  this,  while  Mr.  Bazarov  has  behaved 
most  honourably.     I  called  him  out' 

279 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

*  But  you  're  covered  with  blood,  good 
Heavens ! ' 

*  Well,  did  you  suppose  I  had  water  in  my 
veins?  But  this  blood-letting  is  positively 
beneficial  to  me.  Isn't  that  so,  doctor  ?  Help 
me  to  get  into  the  droshky,  and  don't  give  way 
to  melancholy.  I  shall  be  quite  well  to-morrow. 
That 's  it ;  capital.     Drive  on,  coachman.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  walked  after  the  droshky  ; 
Bazarov  was  remaining  where  he  was.  .  .  . 

*  I  must  ask  you  to  look  after  my  brother,' 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  said  to  him,  'till  we  get 
another  doctor  from  the  town.' 

Bazarov  nodded  his  head  without  speaking. 
In  an  hour's  time  Pavel  Petrovitch  was  already 
lying  in  bed  with  a  skilfully  bandaged  leg.  The 
whole  house  was  alarmed  ;  Fenitchka  fainted. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  kept  stealthily  wringing  his 
hands,  while  Pavel  Petrovitch  laughed  and 
joked,  especially  with  Bazarov  ;  he  had  put  on 
a  fine  cambric  night-shirt,  an  elegant  morning 
wrapper,  and  a  fez,  did  not  allow  the  blinds  to 
be  drawn  down,  and  humorously  complained  of 
the  necessity  of  being  kept  from  food. 

Towards  night,  however,  he  began  to  be 
feverish ;  his  head  ached.  The  doctor  arrived 
from  the  town.  (Nikolai  Petrovitch  would  not 
listen  to  his  brother,  and  indeed  Bazarov  him- 
self did  not  wish  him  to ;  he  sat  the  whole  day 

280 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

•n  his  room,  looking  yellow  and  vindictive,  and 
only  went  in  to  the  invalid  for  as  brief  a  time  as 
possible  ;  twice  he  happened  to  meet  Fenitchka, 
but  she  shrank  away  from  him  with  horror.) 
The  new  doctor  advised  a  cooling  diet ;  he  con- 
firmed, however,  Bazarov's  assertion  that  there 
was  no  danger.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  told  him 
his  brother  had  wounded  himself  by  accident,  to 
which  the  doctor  responded,  *  Hm  ! '  but  having 
twenty-five  silver  roubles  slipped  into  his  hand 
on  the  spot,  he  observed,  *  You  don't  say  so  ! 
Well,  it 's  a  thing  that  often  happens,  to  be  sure.* 
No  one  in  the  house  went  to  bed  or  un- 
dressed. Nikolai  Petrovitch  kept  going  in  to 
his  brother  on  tiptoe,  retreating  on  tiptoe 
again ;  the  latter  dozed,  moaned  a  little,  told 
him  in  French,  Couchez-vous^  and  asked  for 
drink.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  sent  Fenitchka 
twice  to  take  him  a  glass  of  lemonadd  ;  Pavel 
Petrovitch  gazed  at  her  intently,  and  drank  off 
the  glass  to  the  last  drop.  Towards  morning 
the  fever  had  increased  a  little  ;  there  was  slight 
delirium.  At  first  Pavel  Petrovitch  uttered  in- 
coherent words  ;  then  suddenly  he  opened  his 
eyes,  and  seeing  his  brother  near  his  bed  bend- 
ing anxiously  over  him,  he  said,  *  Don't  you 
think,  Nikolai,  Fenitchka  has  something  in 
common  with  Nellie?' 

*  What  Nellie,  Pavel  dear  ? ' 

281 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN  S 


How    can     you     ask  ?      Princess     R- 


Especially  in  the  upper  part  of  the  face. 
Cest  de  la  mime  famille' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  made  no  answer,  while 
inwardly  he  marvelled  at  the  persistence  of  old 
passions  in  man.  '  It 's  like  this  when  it  comes 
to  the  surface,'  he  thought. 

'  Ah,  how  I  love  that  light-headed  creature ! ' 
moaned  Pavel  Petrovitch,  clasping  his  hands 
mournfully  behind  his  head.  '  I  can't  bear  any 
insolent  upstart  to  dare  to  touch  .  .  .'  he 
whispered  a  few  minutes  later. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  only  sighed  ;  he  did  not 
even  suspect  to  whom  these  words  referred. 

Bazarov  presented  himself  before  him  at  eight 
o'clock  the  next  day.  He  had  already  had  time 
to  pack,  and  to  set  free  all  his  frogs,  insects,  and 
birds. 

'  You  have  come  to  say  good-bye  to  me  ? ' 
said  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  getting  up  to  meet  him. 

'  Yes.' 

*  I    understand    you,   and    approve    of   you 

fully.      My    poor    brother,    of    course,    is    to 

blame :    and  he   is   punished  for  it.     He  told 

me   himself  that    he   made   it  impossible   for 

you  to  act  otherwise.     I  believe  that  you  could 

not  avoid  this  duel,  which  .  ,  .  which  to  some 

extent   is   explained   by  the   almost   constant 

antagonism  of  your  respective  views.'     (Nikolai 

282 


i^  FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Petrovitch  began  to  get  a  little  mixed  up  in  his 
words.)  '  My  brother  is  a  man  of  the  old  school, 
hot-tempered  and  obstinate.  .  .  .  Thank  God  that 
it  has  ended  as  it  has.  I  have  taken  every  pre- 
caution to  avoid  publicity.' 

*  I  'm  leaving  you  my  address,  in  case  there 's 
any  fuss/  Bazarov  remarked  casually. 

'  I  hope  there  will  be  no  fuss,  Yevgeny  Vassil- 
yitch.  ...  I  am  very  sorry  your  stay  in  my  house 
should  have  such  a  .  .  .  such  an  end.  It  is  the 
more  distressing  to  me  through  Arkady's  .  .  .' 

*  I  shall  be  seeing  him,  I  expect,'  replied 
Bazarov,  in  whom  *  explanations  *  and  *  protes- 
tations '  of  every  sort  always  aroused  a  feeling 
of  impatience ;  *  in  case  I  don't,  I  beg  you  to 
say  good-bye  to  him  for  me,  and  accept  the 
expression  of  my  regret.' 

*  And  I  beg  .  .  ,'  answered  Nikolai  Petrovitch. 
But  Bazarov  went  off  without  waiting  for  the 
end  of  his  sentence. 

When   he   heard   of  Bazarov's  going,  Pavel 

Petrovitch  expressed  a  desire  to  see  him,  and 

shook  his  hand.     But  even  then  he  remained  as 

cold  as  ice  ;  he  realised  that  Pavel  Petrovitch 

wanted  to  play  the  magnanimous.     He  did  not 

succeed  in  saying  good-bye  to  Fenitchka ;  he 

only  exchanged  glances  with  her  at  the  window. 

Her  face  struck  him  as  looking  dejected.    '  She  '11 

come  to  grief,  perhaps/  he  said  to  himself.  .  ,  . 

283 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 


^  ' 


'  But  who  knows?  she'll  pull  through  somehow, 
I  daresay  ! '  Piotr,  however,  was  so  overcome 
that  he  wept  on  his  shoulder,  till  Bazarov 
damped  him  by  asking  if  he  'd  a  constant  supply 
laid  on  in  his  eyes  ;  while  Dunyasha  was  obliged 
to  run  away  into  the  wood  to  hide  her  emotion. 
The  originator  of  all  this  woe  got  into  a  light 
cart,  smoked  a  cigar,  and  when  at  the  third  mile, 
at  the  bend  in  the  road,  the  Kirsanovs'  farm, 
with  its  new  house,  could  be  seen  in  a  long  line, 
he  merely  spat,  and  muttering,  *  Cursed  snobs  !  * 
wrapped  himself  closer  in  his  cloak. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  was  soon  better ;  but  he  had 
to  keep  his  bed  about  a  week.  He  bore  his 
captivity,  as  he  called  it,  pretty  patiently,  though 
he  took  great  pains  over  his  toilette,  and  had 
everything  scented  with  eau-de-cologne.  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  used  to  read  him  the  journals ;  Fen- 
itchka  waited  on  him  as  before,  brought  him 
lemonade,  soup,  boiled  eggs,  and  tea ;  but  she 
was  overcome  with  secret  dread  whenever  she 
went  into  his  room.  Pavel  Petrovitch's  unex- 
pected action  had  alarmed  every  one  in  the 
iiouse,  and  her  more  than  any  one  ;  Prokofitch 
was  the  only  person  not  agitated  by  it ;  he  dis- 
coursed upon  how  gentlemen  in  his  day  used  to 
fight,  but  only  with  real  gentlemen  ;  low  curs 
like  that  they  used  to  order  a  horsewhipping  in 
the  stable  for  their  insolence. 

284 


•-'•C^ 

/ 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 


Fenitchka's  conscience  scarcely  reproached 
her ;  but  she  was  tormented  at  times  by  the 
thought  of  the  real  cause  of  the  quarrel ;  and 
Pavel  Petrovitch  too  looked  at  her  so  strangely 
.  .  .  that  even  when  her  back  was  turned,  she  felt 
his  eyes  upon  her.  She  grew  thinner  from  con- 
stant inward  agitation,  and,  as  is  always  the 
way,  became  still  more  charming. 

One  day — the  incident  took  place  in  the  morn- 
ing— Pavel  Petrovitch  felt  better,  and  moved  from 
his  bed  to  the  sofa,  while  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
having  satisfied  himself  he  was  better,  went  off 
to  the  threshing-floor.  Fenitchka  brought  him 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  setting  it  down  on  a  little  table, 
was  about  to  withdraw.  Pavel  Petrovitch  de- 
tained her. 

*  Where  are  you  going  in  such  a  hurry, 
Fedosya  Nikolaevna  ?  '  he  began  ;  *  are  you 
busy  ? ' 

'  No  ...  I  have  to  pour  out  tea.' 

'  Dunyasha  will  do  that  without  you  ;  sit  a 
little  while  with  a  poor  invalid.  By  the  way, 
I  must  have  a  little  talk  with  you.' 

Fenitchka  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  an  easy- 
chair,  without  speaking. 

*  Listen,'  said  Pavel  Petrovitch,  tugging  at  his 

moustaches ;   *  I  have  long  wanted  to  ask  you 

something  ;  you  seem  somehow  afraid  of  me  ? ' 

'  I  ?• 

385 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  Yes,  you.  You  never  look  at  me,  as  though 
your  conscience  were  not  at  rest.' 

Fenitchka  crimsoned,  but  looked  at  Pavel 
Petrovitch.  He  impressed  her  as  looking  strange, 
and  her  heart  began  throbbing  slowly. 

*  Is  your  conscience  at  rest  ? '  he  questioned 
her. 

'  Why  should  it  not  be  at  rest  ? '  she  faltered. 

'  Goodness  knows  why  !  Besides,  whom  can 
you  have  wronged  ?  Me  ?  That  is  not  likely. 
Any  other  people  in  the  house  here  ?  That, 
too,  is  something  incredible.  Can  it  be  my 
brother  ?     But  you  love  him,  don't  you  ? ' 

'  I  love  him.' 

'  With  your  whole  soul,  with  your  whole 
heart  ? ' 

'  I  love  Nikolai  Petrovitch  with  my  whole 
heart' 

'  Truly  ?  Look  at  me,  Fenitchka.'  (It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  called  her  that  name.) 
'  You  know,  it 's  a  great  sin  telling  lies  ! ' 

'  I  am  not  telling  lies,  Pavel  Petrovitch.  Not 
love  Nikolai  Petrovitch — I  shouldn't  care  to 
live  after  that' 

*  And  will  you  never  give  him  up  for  any  one  ?  * 

*  For  whom  could  I  give  him  up  ? ' 

'  For  whom  indeed  !     Well,  how  about  that 

gentleman  who  has  just  gone  away  from  here  ? ' 

Fenitchka  got  up.     '  My  God,  Pavel  Petro- 

286 


^         FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

vitch,  what  are  you  torturing  me  for?  What 
have  I  done  to  you  ?  How  can  such  things  be 
said  ? ' .  .  . 

*  Fenitchka/  said  Pavel  Petrovitch,  in  a  sorrow- 
ful voice,  *  you  know  I  saw  .  .  / 

'  What  did  you  see  ? ' 

'  Well,  there  ...  in  the  arbour.' 

Fenitchka  crimsoned  to  her  hair  and  to  her 
ears.  *  How  was  I  to  blame  for  that  ?  *  she 
articulated  with  an  effort. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  raised  himself  up.  *  You 
were  not  to  blame  ?     No  ?     Not  at  all  ? ' 

*  I  love  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  and  no  one  else  in 
the  world,  and  I  shall  always  love  him  ! '  cried 
Fenitchka  with  sudden  force,  while  her  throat 
seemed  fairly  breaking  with  sobs.  '  As  for  what 
you  saw,  at  the  dreadful  day  of  judgment  I  will 
say  I  'm  not  to  blame,  and  wasn't  to  blame  for 
it,  and  I  would  rather  die  at  once  if  people  can 
suspect  me  of  such  a  thing  against  my  bene- 
factor, Nikolai  Petrovitch.' 

But  here  her  voice  broke,  and  at  the  same  time 
she  felt  that  Pavel  Petrovitch  was  snatching 
and  pressing  her  hand.  .  .  .  She  looked  at  him, 
and  was  fairly  petrified.  He  had  turned  even 
paler  than  before ;  his  eyes  were  shining,  and 
what  was  most  marvellous  of  all,  one  large 
solitary  tear  was  rolling  down  his  cheek. 

*  Fenitchka ! '    he   was   saying   in   a   strange 

287 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

whisper ;  *  love  him,  love  my  brother  !  Don't 
give  him  up  for  any  one  in  the  world ;  don't 
listen  to  any  one  else  !  Think  what  can  be 
more  terrible  than  to  love  and  not  be  loved  ! 
Never  leave  my  poor  Nikolai  ! ' 

Fenitchka's  eyes  were  dry,  and  her  terror 
had  passed  away,  so  great  was  her  amazement 
But  what  were  her  feelings  when  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch,  Pavel  Petrovitch  himself,  put  her  hand  to 
his  lips  and  seemed  to  pierce  into  it  without 
kissing  it,  and  only  heaving  convulsive  sighs 
from  time  to  time.  . .  . 

*  Goodness,'  she  thought,  *  isn't  it  some  attack 
coming  on  him  ? ' . .  . 

At  that  instant  his  whole  ruined  life  was 
stirred  up  within  him. 

The  staircase  creaked  under  rapidly  ap- 
proaching footsteps.  .  .  .  He  pushed  her  away 
from  him,  and  let  his  head  drop  back  on  the 
pillow.  The  door  opened,  and  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch entered,  cheerful,  fresh,  and  ruddy.  Mitya, 
as  fresh  and  ruddy  as  his  father,  in  nothing  but 
his  little  shirt,  was  frisking  on  his  shoulder, 
catching  the  big  buttons  of  his  rough  country 
coat  with  his  little  bare  toes. 

Fenitchka  simply  flung  herself  upon  him,  and 

clasping  him  and  her  son  together  in  her  arms, 

dropped   her  head   on   his   shoulder.     Nikolai 

Petrovitch  was   surprised  ;    Fenitchka,  the  re- 

288 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

served  and   staid  Fenitchka,  had  never  given 
him  a  caress  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person. 

*  What 's  the  matter  ? '  he  said,  and,  glancing 
at  his  brother,  he  gave  her  Mitya.  '  You  don't 
feel  worse  ? '  he  inquired,  going  up  to  Pavel 
Petrovitch. 

He  buried  his  face  in  a  cambric  handkerchief, 
'  No  .  .  .  not  at  all  .  .  .  on  the  contrary,  I  am 
much  better.' 

*  You  were  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  move  on 
to  the  sofa.  Where  are  you  going  ? '  added 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  turning  round  to  Fenitchka ; 
but  she  had  already  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
'  I  was  bringing  in  my  young  hero  to  show  you  ; 
he 's  been  crying  for  his  uncle.  Why  has  she 
carried  him  off?  What's  wrong  with  you, 
though  ?  Has  anything  passed  between  you,, 
eh?' 

'  Brother  !  *  said  Pavel  Petrovitch  solemnly. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  started.    He  felt  dismayed, 
he  could  not  have  said  why  himself 

*  Brother,'  repeated  Pavel  Petrovitch,  *  give 
me  your  word  that  you  will  carry  out  my  one 
request.' 

'  What  request  ?     Tell  me.' 

*  It  is  very  important ;  the  whole  happiness 

of  your   life,  to   my  idea,   depends  on    it.      I 

have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  all  this  time 

over   what    I    want   to   say   to  you   now.  .  .  . 

-289  T 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

Brother,  do  your  duty,  the  duty  of  an  honest 
and  generous  man ;  put  an  end  to  the  scandal 
and  bad  example  you  are  setting — you,  the  best 
of  men  ! ' 

*  What  do  you  mean,  Pavel  ? ' 

*  Marry  Fenitchka.  .  . .  She  loves  you ;  she  is 
the  mother  of  your  son.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  stepped  back  a  pace,  and 
flung  up  his  hands.  '  Do  you  say  that,  Pavel  ? 
you  whom  I  have  always  regarded  as  the  most 
determined  opponent  of  such  marriages  !  You 
say  that  ?  Don't  you  know  that  it  has  simply 
been  out  of  respect  for  you  that  I  have  not  done 
what  you  so  rightly  call  my  duty  ? ' 

'  You  were  wrong  to  respect  me  in  that  case,* 
Pavel  Petrovitch  responded,  with  a  weary  smile. 
'  I  begin  to  think  Bazarov  was  right  in  accusing 
me  of  snobbishness.  No,  dear  brother,  don't  let 
us  worry  ourselves  about  appearances  and  the 
world's  opinion  any  more ;  we  are  old  folks  and 
humble  now  ;  it 's  time  we  laid  aside  vanity  of 
all  kinds.  Let  us,  just  as  you  say,  do  our  duty ; 
and  mind,  we  shall  get  happiness  that  way  into 
the  bargain.' 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  rushed  to  embrace  his 
brother. 

*  You  have  opened  my  eyes  completely ! '  he 

cried.     *  I  was  right  in  always  declaring  you  the 

wisest  and  kindest-hearted  fellow  in  the  world, 

290 


^^       FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

and  now  I  see  you  are  just  as  reasonable  as 
you  are  noble-hearted.' 

'  Quietly,  quietly,'  Pavel  Petrovitch  interrupted 
him  ;  '  don't  hurt  the  leg  of  your  reasonable 
brother,  who  at  close  upon  fifty  has  been  fighting 
a  duel  like  an  ensign.  So,  then,  it's  a  settled 
matter ;  Fenitchka  is  to  be  my  .  .  .  del/e  soeur^ 

'  My  dearest  Pavel !  But  what  will  Arkady 
say?' 

'Arkady?  he'll  be  in  ecstasies,  you  may 
depend  upon  it!  Marriage  is  against  his 
principles,  but  then  the  sentiment  of  equality 
in  him  will  be  gratified.  And,  after  all,  what 
sense  have  class  distinctions  au  dix-neuvieme 
siecle  ?  * 

*  Ah,  Pavel,  Pavel !  let  me  kiss  you  once 
more !     Don't  be  afraid,  I  '11  be  careful' 

The  brothers  embraced  each  other. 

'  What  do  you  think,  should  you  not  inform 
her  of  your  intention  now?'  queried  Pavel 
Petrovitch. 

*Why  be  in  a  hurry?'  responded  Nikolai 
Petrovitch.  *  Has  there  been  any  conversation 
between  you  ? ' 

*  Conversation  between  us  ?     Quelle  id^e  !  * 

'  Well,  that  is  all  right  then.  First  of  all,  yoa 
must  get  well,  and  meanwhile  there 's  plenty  of 
time.  We  must  think  it  over  well,  and  con- 
sider .  .  / 

2QI 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 


r 


*  But  your  mind  is  made  up,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  Of  course,  my  mind  is  made  up,  and  I  thank 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  will  leave 
you  now ;  you  must  rest ;  any  excitement  is 
bad  for  you.  .  .  .  But  we  will  talk  it  over  again. 
Sleep  well,  dear  heart,  and  God  bless  you ! ' 

*  What  is  he  thanking  me  like  that  for  ? 
thought  Pavel  Petrovitch,  when  he  was  left  alone. 
*  As  though  it  did  not  depend  on  him  !  I  will  go 
away  directly  he  is  married,  somewhere  a  long 
way  off — to  Dresden  or  Florence,  and  will  live 
there  till  I ' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  moistened  his  forehead  with 
eau  de  cologne,  and  closed  his  eyes.  His 
beautiful,  emaciated  head,  the  glaring  daylight 
shining  full  upon  it,  lay  on  the  white  pillow  like 
the  head  of  a  dead  man.  .  .  ,  And  indeed  he 
was  a  dead  man. 


i^« 


If 


XXV 

At  Nikolskoe  Katya  and  Arkady  were  sitting 
in  the  garden  on  a  turf  seat  in  the  shade  of  a 
tall  ash  tree  ;  Fifi  had  placed  himself  on  the 
ground  near  them,  giving  his  slender  body  that 
graceful  curve,  which  is  known  among  dog- 
fanciers  as  *  the  hare  bend.'  Both  Arkady  and 
Katya  were  silent ;  he  was  holding  a  half-open 
book  in  his  hands,  while  she  was  picking  out  of 
a  basket  the  few  crumbs  of  bread  left  in  it,  and 
throwing  them  to  a  small  family  of  sparrows, 
who  with  the  frightened  impudence  peculiar  to 
them  were  hopping  and  chirping  at  her  very 
feet.  A  faint  breeze  stirring  in  the  ash  leaves 
kept  slowly  moving  pale-gold  flecks  of  sunlight 
up  and  down  over  the  path  and  Fifi's  tawny 
back  ;  a  patch  of  unbroken  shade  fell  upon 
Arkady  and  Katya  ;  only  from  time  to  time  a 
bright  streak  gleamed  on  her  hair.  Both  were 
silent,  but  the  very  way  in  which  they  were 
silent,  in  which  they  were  sitting  together,  was 
expressive    of  confidential   intimacy;  each   of 

293 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 


%: 


them  seemed  not  even  to  be  thinking  of  his 
companion,  while  secretly  rejoicing  in  his 
presence.  Their  faces,  too,  had  changed  since 
we  saw  them  last ;  Arkady  looked  more  tranquil 
Katya  brighter  and  more  daring. 

*  Don't  you  think,'  began  Arkady,  *  that  the 
ash  has  been  very  well  named  in  Russian 
yasen  ;  no  other  tree  is  so  lightly  and  brightly 
transparent  (jasno)  against  the  air  as  it 
is/ 

Katya  raised  her  eyes  to  look  upward,  and 
assented,  *  Yes  ' ;  while  Arkady  thought,  *  Well, 
she  does  not  reproach  me  for  talking  finely.' 

*  I  don't  like  Heine,'  said  Katya,  glancing  to- 
'^wards  the  book  which  Arkady  was  holding  in 

his  hands,  *  either  when  he  laughs  or  when  he 
weeps ;  I  like  him  when  he 's  thoughtful  and 
melancholy.* 

*  And  I  like  him  when  he  laughs,'  remarked 
Arkady. 

'  That's  the  relics  left  in  you  of  your  old  satiri- 
cal tendencies.'  *  (Relics  ! '  thought  Arkady — '  if 
Bazarov  had  heard  that  ? ')  *  Wait  a  little  ;  we 
shall  transform  you.' 

*  Who  will  transform  me  ?     You  ? ' 

*  Who  ? — my  sister  ;  Porfiry  Platonovitch, 
whom  you  've  given  up  quarrelling  with  ;  auntie, 
whom  you  escorted  to  church  the  day  before 
yesterday.' 

294 


I 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 


*  Well,  1  couldn't  refuse !  And  as  for  Anna 
Sergyevna,  she  agreed  with  Yevgeny  in  a  great 
many  things,  you  remember  ?  * 

*  My  sister  was  under  his  influence  then,  just 
as  you  were.' 

'  As   I    was  ?     Do  you  discover,  may  I  ask, 
that  I  've  shaken  off  his  influence  now  ? ' 
Katya  did  not  speak. 

*  I  know,'  pursued  Arkady,  *  you  never  liked 
him.' 

'  I  can  have  no  opinion  about  him.' 

*  Do  you  know,  Katerina  Sergyevna,  every 
time  I  hear  that  answer  I  disbelieve  it.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  man  that  every  one  of  us  could  not 
have  an  opinion  about !  That's  simply  a  way 
of  getting  out  of  it' 

*  Well,  I  '11  say,  then,  I  don't.  .  .  .  It's  not 
exactly  that  I  don't  like  him,  but  I  feel  that  he  's 
of  a  different  order  from  me,  and  I  am  different 
from  him  .  .  .  and  you  too  are  different  from 
him.' 

'How's  that?* 

*  How  can  I  tell  you,  ,  .  .  He 's  a  wild  animal, 
and  you  and  I  are  tame.' 

'  Am  I  tame  too  ?  ' 

Katya  nodded. 

Arkady  scratched  his  ear.     *  Let  me  tell  you, 

Katerina  Sergyevna,  do  you  know,  that's  really 

an  insult?' 

295 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 


< 


'  Why,  would  you  like  to  be  a  wild • 

*  Not  wild,  but  strong,  full  of  force.' 

'  It's  no  good  wishing  for  that.  . .  .  Your  friend, 
you  see,  doesn't  wish  for  it,  but  he  has  it.' 

*  Hm !  So  you  imagine  he  had  a  great 
influence  on  Anna  Sergyevna  ? ' 

*  Yes.  But  no  one.can  keep  the  upper  hand  of 
her  for  long/  added  Katya  in  a  low  voice. 

*  Why  do  you  think  that  ? ' 

*  She's  very  proud.  ...  I  didn't  mean  that 
.  .  .  she  values  her  independence  a  great 
deal.' 

'  Who  doesn't  value  it  ? '  asked  Arkady,  and 
the  thought  flashed  through  his  mind,  '  What 
good  is  it  ? '  *  What  good  is  it  ?  '  it  occur- 
red to  Katya  to  wonder  too.  When  young 
people  are  often  together  on  friendly  terms, 
they  are  constantly  stumbling  on  the  same 
ideas. 

Arkady  smiled,  and,  coming  slightly  closer  to 
Katya,  he  said  in  a  whisper,  '  Confess  that 
you  are  a  little  afraid  of  her.' 

*  Of  whom  ? ' 

'  Her,'  repeated  Arkady  significantly. 

*  And  how  about  you  ? '  Katya  asked  in  her 
turn. 

*  I  am  too,  observe  I  said,  I  am  too! 

Katya  threatened  him  with   her  finger.     *  I 

wonder  at   that,'    she    began ;    *  my  sister  has 

296 


I 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 


never  felt  so  friendly  to  you  as  just  now  ;  much 
more  so  than  when  you  first  came.' 

'  Really  ! ' 

'  Why,  haven't  you  noticed  it  ?  Aren't  you 
glad  of  it  ? ' 

Arkady  grew  thoughtful. 

'  How  have  I  succeeded  in  gaining  Anna 
Sergyevna's  good  opinion  ?  Wasn't  it  because 
I  brought  her  your  mother's  letters  ? ' 

*  Both  that  and  other  causes,  which  I  shan't 
tell  you.' 

'Why?' 

*  I  shan't  say. 

*  Oh  !     I  know  ;  you  're  very  obstinate.' 

*  Yes,  I  am.' 

'  And  observant' 

Katya  gave  Arkady  a  sidelong  look.  *  Per- 
haps so ;  does  that  irritate  you  ?  What  are 
you  thinking  of? ' 

'  I  am  wondering  how  you  have  come  to  be 
as  observant  as  in  fact  you  are.  You  are  so  shy 
so  reserved  ;  you  keep  every  one  at  a  distance.' 

*  I  have  lived  a  great  deal  alone ;  that  drives 
one  to  reflection.  But  do  I  really  keep  every 
one  at  a  distance?' 

Arkady  flung  a  grateful  glance  at  Katya. 

*  That 's  all  very  well,'  he  pursued  ;  *  but 
people  in  your  position — I  mean  in  your  circum- 
stances— don't  often  have  that  faculty  ;  it  is  hard 

297 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDRLN 


I 


for  them,  as  it  is  for  sovereigns,  to  get  at  the 
truth.' 

'  But,  you  see,  I  am  not  rich.' 

Arkady  was  taken  aback,  and  did  not  at  once 
understand  Katya.  '  Why,  of  course,  the  pro- 
perty 's  all  her  sister's  ! '  struck  him  suddenly  ; 
the  thought  was  not  unpleasing  to  him.  *  How 
nicely  you  said  that ! '  he  commented. 

'What?' 

'  You  said  it  nicely,  simply,  without  being 
ashamed  or  making  a  boast  of  it  By  the  way, 
I  imagine  there  must  always  be  something 
special,  a  kind  of  pride  of  a  sort  in  the  feeling 
of  any  man,  who  knows  and  says  he  is  poor.' 

*  I  have  never  experienced  anything  of  that 
sort,  thanks  to  my  sister.  I  only  referred  to  my 
position  just  now  because  it  happened  to  come 
up.' 

*  Well ;  but  you  must  own  you  have  a  share  of 
that  pride  I  spoke  of  just  now.' 

'  For  instance  ? ' 

*  For  instance,  you — forgive  the  question — 
you  wouldn't  marry  a  rich  man,  I  fancy,  would 
you?' 

*  If  I  loved  him  very  much.  .  .  .  No,  I  think 
even  then  I  wouldn't  marry  him.' 

*  There  !  you  see  ! '  cried  Arkady,  and  after  a 
short  pause  he  added,  '  And  why  wouldn't  you 
marry  him  ? ' 

298 


i         FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

*  Because  even  in  the  ballads  unequal  matches 
are  always  unlucky.' 

'  You  want  to  rule,  perhaps,  or  .  .  . 

*  Oh,  no  !  why  should  I  ?  On  the  contrary,  I 
am  ready  to  obey ;  only  inequality  is  intoler- 
able. To  respect  one's  self  and  obey,  that  I 
can  understand,  that 's  happiness ;  but  a  sub- 
ordinate existence  .  .  .  No,  I  Ve  had  enough  of 
that  as  it  is.' 

*  Enough  of  that  as  it  is,'  Arkady  repeated 
after  Katya.  '  Yes,  yes,'  he  went  on,  '  you  're  not 
Anna  Sergyevna's  sister  for  nothing;  you're 
just  as  independent  as  she  is ;  but  you're  more 
reserved.  I  'm  certain  you  wouldn't  be  the  first 
to  give  expression  to  your  feeling,  however 
strong  and  holy  it  might  be  .  .  .' 

*  Well,  what  would  you  expect  ? '  asked 
Katya. 

'  You  're  equally  clever ;  and  you  've  as  much, 
if  not  more,  character  than  she.' 

*  Don't  compare  me  with  my  sister,  please,' 
interposed  Katya  hurriedly  ;  '  that 's  too  much 
to  my  disadvantage.  You  seem  to  forget  my 
sister's  beautiful  and  clever,  and  .  .  .  you  in 
particular,  Arkady  Nikolaevitch,  ought  not  to 
say  such  things,  and  with  such  a  serious  face 
too.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  by  "  you  in  particular  "— 
and  what  makes  you  suppose  I  am  joking  ? ' 

299 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

*  Of  course,  you  are  joking.' 

'You  think  so?  But  what  if  I'm  persuaded 
of  what  I  say?  if  I  believe  I  have  not  put  it 
strongly  enough  even  ? ' 

'  I  don't  understand  you.' 

*  Really  ?  Well,  now  I  see  ;  I  certainly  took 
you  to  be  more  observant  than  you  are.' 

'How?' 

Arkady  made  no  answer,  and  turned  away, 
while  Katya  looked  for  a  few  more  crumbs  in 
the  basket,  and  began  throwing  them  to  the 
sparrows  ;  but  she  moved  her  arm  too  vigorously, 
and  they  flew  away,  without  stopping  to  pick 
them  up. 

'  Katerina  Sergyevna  ! '  began  Arkady  sud- 
denly ;  *  it 's  of  no  consequence  to  you,  probably  ; 
but,  let  me  tell  you,  I  put  you  not  only  above 
your  sister,  but  above  every  one  in  the  world.' 

He  got  up  and  went  quickly  away,  as  though 
he  were  frightened  at  the  words  that  had  fallen 
from  his  lips. 

Katya  let  her  two  hands  drop  together  with 
the  basket  on  to  her  lap,  and  with  bent  head 
she  stared  a  long  while  after  Arkady.  Gradually 
a  crimson  flush  came  faintly  out  upon  her 
cheeks  ;  but  her  lips  did  not  smile,  and  her  dark 
eyes  had  a  look  of  perplexity  and  some  other, 
as  yet  undefined,  feeling. 

*  Are   you   alone  ? '   she   heard  the   voice  of 

300 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Anna  Sergyevna  near  her  ;  '  I  thought  you  came 
into  the  garden  with  Arkady.' 

Katya  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  her  sister 
(elegantly,  even  elaborately  dressed,  she  was 
standing  in  the  path  and  tickling  Fifi's  ears  with 
the  tip  of  her  open  parasol),  and  slowly  replied. 
*  Yes,  I  'm  alone.' 

*  So  I  see,'  she  answered  with  a  smile  ;  *  I  sup- 
pose he  has  gone  to  his  room.' 

'Yes.' 

'  Have  you  been  reading  together?' 
'Yes.'  ' 

Anna  Sergyevna  took  Katya  by  the  chin  and 
lifted  her  face  up. 

*  You  have  not  been  quarrelling,  I  hope  ?  ' 

*  No,'  said  Katya,  and  she  quietly  removed  her 
sister's  hand. 

'  How  solemnly  you  answer  !     I  expected  to 

find  him  here,  and  meant  to  suggest  his  coming 

a  walk  with  me.     That 's  what  he  is  always 

asking  for.     They  have  sent  you  some  shoes 

from  the  town  ;  go  and  try  them  on  ;  I  noticed 

only  yesterday  your  old  ones  are  quite  shabby. 

You   never  think   enough   about    it,   and   you 

have  such  charming  little  feet !     Your  hands 

are  nice  too  .  .  .  though  they  're  large ;  so  you 

must  make  the  most  of  your  little  feet     But 

you  're  not  vain.' 

Anna  Sergyevna  went  farther  along  the  path 

301 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

with  a  light  rustle  of  her  beautiful  gown  ;  Katya 
got  up  from  the  grass,  and,  taking  Heine  with 
her,  went  away  too — but  not  to  try  on  her 
shoes. 

'  Charming  little  feet ! '  she  thought,  as  she 
slowly  and  lightly  mounted  the  stone  steps  of 
the  terrace,  which  were  burning  with  the  heat  of 
the  sun  ;  '  charming  little  feet  you  call  them. 
.  .  .  Well,  he  shall  be  at  them? 

But  all  at  once  a  feeling  of  shame  came  upon 
her,  and  she  ran  swiftly  upstairs. 

Arkady  had  gone  along  the  corridor  to  his 
room ;  a  steward  had  overtaken  him,  and 
announced  that  Mr.  Bazarov  was  in  his  room. 

'  Yevgeny  ! '  murmured  Arkady,  almost  with 
dismay  ;  *  has  he  been  here  long  ? ' 

'  Mr.  Bazarov  arrived  this  minute,  sir,  and  gave 
orders  not  to  announce  him  to  Anna  Sergyevna, 
but  to  show  him  straight  up  to  you.' 

*  Can  any  misfortune  have  happened  at  home?' 
thought  Arkady,  and  running  hurriedly  up  the 
stairs,  he  at  once  opened  the  door.  The  sight 
of  Bazarov  at  once  reassured  him,  though  a  more 
experienced  eye  might  very  probably  have  dis- 
cerned signs  of  inward  agitation  in  the  sunken, 
though  still  energetic  face  of  the  unexpected 
visitor.  With  a  dusty  cloak  over  his  shoulders, 
with  a  cap  on  his  head,  he  was  sitting  at  the 

window  ;  he  did  not  even  get  up  when  Arkady 

302 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

flung  himself  with  noisy  exclamations  on  his 
Deck. 

'  This  is  unexpected !  What  good  luck 
brought  you  ? '  he  kept  repeating,  bustling  about 
the  room  like  one  who  both  imagines  himself 
and  wishes  to  show  himself  delighted.  *  I  sup- 
pose everything  's  all  right  at  home  ;  every  one 's 
well,  eh  ? ' 

'  Everything  *s  all  right,  but  not  every  one 's 
well,'  said  Bazarov.  'Don't  be  a  chatterbox, 
but  send  for  some  kvass  for  me,  sit  down,  and 
listen  while  I  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a  few,  but, 
I  hope,  pretty  vigorous  sentences.' 

Arkady  was  quiet  while  Bazarov  described 
his  duel  with  Pavel  Petrovitch.  Arkady  was 
very  much  surprised,  and  even  grieved,  but  he 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  show  this  ;  he  only 
asked  whether  his  uncle's  wound  was  really  not 
serious  ;  and  on  receiving  the  reply  that  it  was 
most  interesting,  but  not  from  a  medical  point 
of  view,  he  gave  a  forced  smile,  but  at  heart  he 
felt  both  wounded  and  as  it  were  ashamed. 
Bazarov  seemed  to  understand  him. 

*  Yes,  my  dear  fellow,'  he  commented,  '  you 
see  what  comes  of  living  with  feudal  person- 
ages. You  turn  a  feudal  personage  yourself, 
and  find  yourself  taking  part  in  knightly  tourna- 
ments.    Well,   so    I    set   off   for   my   father's,' 

Bazarov  wound  up,  '  and  I  've  turned  in  here  on 

303 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

the  way  ...  to  tell  you  all  this,  I  should  say, 
if  I  didn't  think  a  useless  lie  a  piece  of  foolery. 
No,  1  turned  in  here — the  devil  only  knows 
why.  You  see,  it 's  sometimes  a  g:ood  thing  for 
a  man  to  take  himself  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck 
and  pull  himself  up,  like  a  radish  out  of  its  bed  ; 
that 's  what  I  've  been  doing  of  late.  .  .  .  But  I 
wanted  to  have  one  more  look  at  what  I  'm 
giving  up,  at  the  bed  where  I  've  been 
planted.' 

*  I  hope  those  words  don't  refer  to  me,'  re- 
sponded Arkady  with  some  emotion  ;  *  I  hope 
you  don't  think  of  giving  me  up  ?  * 

Bazarov  turned  an  intent,  almost  piercing 
look  upon  him. 

*  Would  that  be  such  a  grief  to  you  ?  It 
strikes  me  you  have  given  me  up  already,  you 
look  so  fresh  and  smart.  .  .  .  Your  affair  with 
Anna  Sergyevna  must  be  getting  on  success- 
fully.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  by  my  affair  with  Anna 
Sergyevna  ? ' 

*  Why,  didn't  you  come  here  from  the  town  on 
her  account,  chicken  ?  By  the  way,  how  are 
those  Sunday  schools  getting  on  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  you  're  not  in  love  with  her  ?  Or 
have  you  already  reached  the  stage  of  dis- 
cretion ?  * 

*  Yevgeny,  you  know  I  have  always  been  open 

304 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

with  you ;  I  can  assure  you,  I   will  swear  to 
you,  you  're  making  a  mistake.' 

*  Hm !  That 's  another  story,'  remarked 
Bazarov  in  an  undertone.  '  But  you  needn't  be 
in  a  taking,  it 's  a  matter  of  absolute  indiffer- 
ence to  me.  A  sentimentalist  would  say,  "  I  feel 
that  our  paths  are  beginning  to  part,"  but  I  will 
simply  say  that  we  're  tired  of  each  othei. 

'Yevgeny  .  .  .' 

*'My  dear  soul,  there  's  no  great  harm  in  that. 
One  gets  tired  of  much  more  than  that  in  this 
life.  And  now  I  suppose  we  'd  better  say  good- 
bye, hadn't  we  ?  Ever  since  I  've  been  here  I  've 
had  such  a  loathsome  feeling,  just  as  if  I  'd  been 
reading  Gogol's  effusions  to  the  governor  of 
Kalouga's  wife.  By  the  way,  I  didn  't  tell  them 
to  take  the  horses  out.' 

*  Upon  my  word,  this  is  too  much  ! ' 
'Why?' 

*  I  '11  say  nothing  of  myself ;  but  that  would 
be  discourteous  to  the  last  degree  to  Anna 
Sergyevna,  who  will  certainly  wish  to  see  you.' 

*  Oh,  you  're  mistaken  there.' 

*  On  the  contrary,  I  am  certain  I  'm  right,' 
retorted  Arkady.  '  And  what  are  you  pretend- 
ing for?  If  it  comes  to  that,  haven't  you  come 
here  on  her  account  yourself?' 

'  That  may  be  so,  but  you  're  mistaken  any 
way.' 

305  u 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

But  Arkady  was  right.  Anna  Sergyevna 
desired  to  see  Bazarov,  and  sent  a  summons  to 
him  by  a  steward.  Bazarov  changed  his  clothes 
before  going  to  her ;  it  turned  out  that  he  had 
packed  his  new  suit  so  as  to  be  able  to  get  it  out 
easily. 

Madame  Odintsov  received  him  not  in  the 
room  where  he  had  so  unexpectedly  declared 
his  love  to  her,  but  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
held  her  finger  tips  out  to  him  cordially,  but 
her  face  betrayed  an  involuntary  sense  of  tension. 

*  Anna  Sergyevna,'  Bazarov  hastened  to  say, 
'before  everything  else  I  must  set  your  mind 
at  rest  Before  you  is  a  poor  mortal,  who  has 
come  to  his  senses  long  ago,  and  hopes  other 
people  too  have  forgotten  his  follies.  I  am 
going  away  for  a  long  while ;  and  though,  as 
you  will  allow,  I  'm  by  no  means  a  very  soft 
creature,  it  would  be  anything  but  cheerful 
for  me  to  carry  away  with  me  the  idea  that 
you  remember  me  with  repugnance.' 

Anna  Sergyevna  gave  a  deep  sigh  like  one 
who  has  just  climbed  up  a  high  mountain,  and 
her  face  was  lighted  up  by  a  smile.  She  held 
out  her  hand  a  second  time  to  Bazarov,  and 
responded  to  his  pressure. 

'  Let  bygones  be  bygones,'  she  said.  '  I  am 
all  the  readier  to  do  so  because,  speaking  from 
my  conscience,   I   was  to  blame  then  too  for 

io6 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

flirting  or  something.  In  a  word,  let  us  be 
friends  as  before.  That  was  a  dream,  wasn't  it  ? 
And  who  remembers  dreams  ? '  , 

*  Who  remembers  them  ?     And  besides,  love  ( 

,  ,  ,  you  know,  is  a  purely  imaginary  feeling/       \ 

*  Really  ?     I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that.'  j 
So   Anna   Sergyevna   spoke,  and   so   spoke 

Bazarov  ;  they  both  supposed  they  were  speak- 
ing the  truth.     Was  the  truth,  the  whole  truth, 
to  be  found  in  their  words  ?     They  could  not 
themselves  have  said,  and  much  less  could  the   ' 
author.     But  a  conversation  followed  between  / 
them    precisely    as    though    they    completely  I 
believed  one  another. 

Anna  Sergyevna  asked  Bazarov,  among  other 
things,  what  he  had  been  doing  at  the  Kirsanovs'. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  telling  her  about  his 
duel  with  Pavel  Petrovitch,  but  he  checked  him- 
self with  the  thought  that  she  might  imagine 
he  was  trying  to  make  himself  interesting,  and 
answered  that  he  had  been  at  work  all  the  time. 

*  And  1/  observed  Anna  Sergyevna,  '  had  a 
fit  of  depression  at  first,  goodness  knows  why ;  I 
even  made  plans  for  going  abroad,  fancy !  .  .  . 
Then  it  passed  off, your  friend  Arkady  Nikolaitch 
came,  and  I  fell  back  into  my  old  routine,  and 
took  up  my  real  part  again.' 

*  What  part  is  that,  may  I  ask  ? ' 

•The  character  of  aunt,  guardian,  mother — 

307 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

call  it  what  you  like.  By  the  way,  do  you  know 
I  used  not  quite  to  understand  your  close  friend- 
ship with  Arkady  Nikolaitch  ;  I  thought  him 
rather  insignificant.  But  now  I  have  come  to 
know  him  better,  and  to  see  that  he  is  clever.  .  .  . 
And  he 's  young,  he 's  young  .  .  .  that 's  the  great 
thing  .  .  .  not  like  you  and  me,  Yevgeny  Vassii- 
yitch.' 

*  Is  he  still  as  shy  in  your  company  ?  *  queried 
Bazarov. 

'Why,  was  he?'  .  .  .  Anna  Sergyevna  began, 
and  after  a  brief  pause  she  went  on :  *  He  has 
grown  more  confiding  now ;  he  talks  to  me.  He 
used  to  avoid  me  before.  Though,  indeed,  1 
didn't  seek  his  society  either.  He 's  more  friends 
with  Katya.' 

Bazarov  felt  irritated.  '  A  woman  can't  help 
humbugging,  of  course  ! '  he  thought.  *  You  say 
he  used  to  avoid  you,'  he  said  aloud,  with  a  chilly 
smile  ;  *  but  it  is  probably  no  secret  to  you  that 
he  was  in  love  with  you  ? ' 

*  What !  he  too  ? '  fell  from  Anna  Sergyevna's 
lips. 

*  He  too,'  repeated  Bazarov,  with  a  submissive 
bow.  '  Can  it  be  you  didn't  know  it,  and  I  've 
told  you  something  new  ?  ' 

Anna  Sergyevna  droppea  her  eyes.  '  You 
are  mistaken,  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch.' 

*  I  don't  think  so.     But  perhaps  I  ought  not 

So8 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

to  have  mentioned  it.'  'And  don't  you  try 
telling  me  lies  again  for  the  future,'  he  added  to 
himself. 

'  Why  not  ?  But  I  imagine  that  in  this  too 
you  are  attributing  too  much  importance  to  a 
passing  impression.  I  begin  to  suspect  you  are 
inclined  to  exaggeration.' 

'  We  had  better  not  talk  about  it,  Anna 
Sergyevna.' 

*  Oh,  why  ? '  she  retorted  ;  but  she  herself  led 
the  conversation  into  another  channel.  She  was 
still  ill  at  ease  with  Bazarov,  though  she  had 
told  him,  and  assured  herself  that  everything 
was  forgotten.  While  she  was  exchanging  the 
simplest  sentences  with  him,  even  while  she  was 
jesting  with  him,  she  was  conscious  of  a  faint 
spasm  of  dread.  So  people  on  a  steamer  at  sea 
talk  and  laugh  carelessly,  for  all  the  world  as 
though  they  were  on  dry  land  ;  but  let  only  the 
slightest  hitch  occur,  let  the  least  sign  be  seen 
of  anything  out  of  the  common,  and  at  once  on 
every  face  there  comes  out  an  expression  of 
peculiar  alarm,  betraying  the  constant  con- 
sciousness of  constant  danger. 

Anna  Sergyevna's  conversation  with  Bazarov 
did  not  last  long.  She  began  to  seem  absorbed 
in  thought,  answered  abstractedly,  and  suggested 
at  last  that  they  should  go  into  the  hall,  where 
they  found  the  princess  and  Katya.    '  But  where 

309 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

is  Arkady  Nikolaitch  ? '  inquired  the  lady  of  the 
house ;  and  on  hearing  that  he  had  not  shown 
himself  for  more  than  an  hour,  she  sent  for 
him.  He  was  not  very  quickly  found  ;  he  had 
hidden  himself  in  the  very  thickest  part  of  the 
garden,  and  with  his  chin  propped  on  his  folded 
hands,  he  was  sitting  lost  in  meditation.  They 
were  deep  and  serious  meditations,  but  not 
mournful.  He  knew  Anna  Sergyevna  was  sit- 
ting alone  with  Bazarov,  and  he  felt  no  jealousy, 
as  once  he  had  ;  on  the  contrarj/,  his  face  slowly 
brightened  ;  he  seemed  to  be  at  once  wonderii^g 
and  rejoicing,  and  resolving  on  something. 


310 


XXVI 

The  deceased  Odintsov  had  not  liked  innova- 
tions, but  he  had  tolerated  '  the  fine  arts  within 
a  certain  sphere,'  and  had  in  consequence  put 
up  in  his  garden,  between  the  hothouse  and  the 
lake,  an  erection  after  the  fashion  of  a  Greek 
temple,  made  of  Russian  brick.  Along  the  dark 
wall  at  the  back  of  this  temple  or  gallery  were 
placed  six  niches  for  statues,  which  Odintsov 
had  proceeded  to  order  from  abroad.  These 
statues  were  to  represent  Solitude,  Silence, 
Meditation,  Melancholy,  Modesty,  and  Sensi- 
bility. One  of  them,  the  goddess  of  Silence, 
with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  had  been  sent  and 
put  up ;  but  on  the  very  same  day  some  boys 
on  the  farm  had  broken  her  nose ;  and  though  a 
plasterer  of  the  neighbourhood  undertook  to 
make  her  a  new  nose  *  twice  as  good  as  the  old 
one,'  Odintsov  ordered  her  to  be  taken  away, 
and  she  was  still  to  be  seen  in  the  corner  of  the 
threshing  barn,  where  she  had  stood  many  long 
years,  a  source  of  superstitious  terror  to  the 

311 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN' 

peasant  women.  The  front  part  of  the  temple 
had  long  ago  been  over^^rown  with  thick  bushes ; 
only  the  pediments  of  the  columns  could  be  seen 
above  the  dense  green.  In  the  temple  itself  it 
was  cool  even  at  mid-day.  Anna  Sergyevna  had 
not  liked  visiting  this  place  ever  since  she  had 
seen  a  snake  there;  but  Katya  often  came  and  sat 
on  the  wide  stone  seat  under  one  of  the  niches. 
Here,  in  the  midst  of  the  shade  and  coolness, 
she  used  to  read  and  work,  or  to  give  herself  up 
to  that  sensation  of  perfect  peace,  known,  doubt- 
less, to  each  of  us,  the  charm  of  which  consists 
in  the  half-unconscious,  silent  listening  to  the 
vast  current  of  life  that  flows  for  ever  both 
around  us  and  within  us. 

The  day  after  Bazarov's  arrival  Katya  was 
sitting  on  her  favourite  stone  seat,  and  beside 
her  again  was  sitting  Arkady.  He  had  besought 
her  to  come  with  him  to  the  '  temple.' 

There  was  about  an  hour  still  to  lunch-tim.e ; 
the  dewy  morning  had  already  given  place  to  a 
sultry  day.  Arkady's  face  retained  the  expres- 
sion of  the  preceding  day  ;  Katya  had  a  pre- 
occupied look.  Her  sister  had,  directly  after  their 
morning  tea,  called  her  into  her  room,  and  after 
some  preliminary  caresses,  which  always  scared 
Katya  a  little,  she  had  advised  her  to  be  more 
guarded  in   her   behaviour  with    Arkady,  and 

especially  to  avoid  solitary  talks  with  him,  as 

312 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

likely  to  attract  the  notice  of  her  aunt  and  all 
the  household.  Besides  this,  even  the  previous 
evening  Anna  Sergyevna  had  not  been  herself; 
and  Katya  herself  had  felt  ill  at  ease,  as  though 
she  were  conscious  of  some  fault  in  herself.  As 
she  yielded  to  Arkady's  entreaties,  she  said  to 
herself  that  it  was  for  the  last  time. 

*  Katerina  Sergyevna,'  he  began  with  a  sort  of 
bashful  easiness,  *  since  I  Ve  had  the  happiness 
of  living  in  the  same  house  with  you,  I  have  dis- 
cussed a  great  many  things  with  you  ;  but  mean- 
while there  is  one,  very  important .  .  .  for  me  .  .  . 
one  question,  which  I  have  not  touched  upon  up 
till  now.  You  remarked  yesterday  that  I  have 
been  changed  here,'  he  went  on,  at  once  catch- 
ing and  avoiding  the  questioning  glance  Katya 
was  turning  upon  him.  *  I  have  changed  cer- 
tainly a  great  deal,  and  you  know  that  better 
than  any  one  else — you  to  whom  I  really  owe 
this  change.' 

*  I  ?     .  .  Me  ?  .  .  /  said  Katya. 

*  I  am  not  now  the  conceited  boy  I  was  when 
I  came  here,'  Arkady  went  on.  '  I  've  not  reached 
twenty-three  for  nothing  ;  as  before,  I  want  to 
be  useful,  I  want  to  devote  all  my  powers  to  the 
truth  ;  but  I  no  longer  look  for  my  ideals  where 
I  did  ;  they  present  themselves  to  me  .  .  much 
closer  to  hand.  Up  till  now  I  did  not  under- 
stand myself;    I  set  myself  tasks  which  were 

313 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

beyond  my  powers.  .  .  .  My  eyes  have  been 
opened  lately,  thanks  to  one  feeling.  ...  I  'm 
not  expressing  myself  quite  clearly,  but  I  hope 
you  understand  me.' 

Katya  made  no  reply,  but  she  ceased  looking 
at  Arkady. 

*I  suppose,'  he  began  again,  this  time  in  a  more 
agitated  voice,  while  above  his  head  a  chaffinch 
sang  its  song  unheeding  among  the  leaves  of 
the  birch — *  I  suppose  it 's  the  duty  of  every  one 
to  be  open  with  those  .  .  .  with  those  people 
who  ...  in  fact,  with  those  who  are  near  to 
him,  and  so  I  ...  I  resolved  .  .  .' 

But  here  Arkady's  eloquence  deserted  him  ; 
he  lost  the  thread,  stammered,  and  was  forced 
to  be  silent  for  a  moment.  Katya  still  did  not 
raise  her  eyes.  She  seemed  not  to  understand 
what  he  was  leading  up  to  in  all  this,  and  to  be 
waiting  for  something. 

*  I  foresee  I  shall  surprise  you,'  began  Arkady, 
pulling  himself  together  again  with  an  effort, 
*  especially  since  this  feeling  relates  in  a  way  .  , , 
in  a  way,  notice  ...  to  you.  You  reproached 
me,  if  you  remember,  yesterday  with  a  want  of 
seriousness,'  Arkady  went  on,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  got  into  a  bog,  feels  that  he  is 
sinking  further  and  further  in  at  every  step,  and 
yet  hurries  onward r>  in  the  hope  of  crossing  it 
as  soon   as   possible ;   '  that   reproach  is  often 

314 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

aimed  .  .  .  often  falls  ...  on  young  men  even 
when  they  cease  to  deserve  it ;  and  if  I  had 
more  self-confidence  ...'(*  Come,  help  me,  do 
help  me  ! '  Arkady  was  thinking,  in  desperation  ; 
but,  as  before,  Katya  did  not  turn  her  head.) 
*  If  I  could  hope  .  .  .' 

'  If  I  could  feel  sure  of  what  you  say,'  was 
heard  at  that  instant  the  clear  voice  of  Anna 
Sergyevna. 

Arkady  was  still  at  once,  while  Katya  turned 
pale.  Close  by  the  bushes  that  screened  the 
temple  ran  a  little  path.  Anna  Sergyevna  was 
walking  along  it  escorted  by  Bazarov.  Katya 
and  Arkady  could  not  see  them,  but  they  heard 
every  word,  the  rustle  of  their  clothes,  their  very 
breathing.  They  walked  on  a  few  steps,  and, 
as  though  on  purpose,  stood  still  just  opposite 
the  temple, 

*  You  see,'  pursued  Anna  Sergyevna,  *  you 
and  I  made  a  mistake  ;  we  are  both  past  our 
first  youth,  I  especially  so ;  we  have  seen  life, 
we  are  tired ;  we  are  both — why  affect  not  to 
know  it  ? — clever ;  at  first  we  interested  each 
other,  curiosity  was  aroused  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .' 

*  And  then  I  grew  stale,'  put  in  Bazarov. 

'  You  know  that  was  not  the  cause  of  our 
misunderstanding.  But,  however,  it  was  to  be, 
we  had  no  need  of  one  another,  that 's  the  chief 
point ;  there  was  too  much  .  .  .  what  shall  I 

3^5 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

say  ?  .  .  .  that  was  alike  in   us.     We  did  not 
realise  it  all  at  once.     Now,  Arkady  .  .  .' 
'  Do  you  need  him  ? '  queried  Bazarov. 

*  Hush,  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch.  You  tell  me  he 
is  not  indifferent  to  me,  and  it  always  seemed  to 
me  he  liked  me.  I  know  that  I  might  well  be 
his  aunt,  but  I  don't  wish  to  conceal  from  you 
that  I  have  come  to  think  more  often  of  him. 
In  such  youthful,  fresh  feeling  there  is  a  special 
charm  .  .  .* 

*  The  word  fascination  is  most  usual  in  such 
cases,'  Bazarov  interrupted ;  the  effervescence 
of  his  spleen  could  be  heard  in  his  choked 
though  steady  voice.  'Arkady  was  mysterious 
over  something  with  me  yesterday,  and  didn't 
talk  either  of  you  or  of  your  sister.  .  .  .  That 's 
a  serious  symptom.' 

'  He  is  just  like  a  brother  with  Katya,*  com- 
mented Anna  Sergyevna,  'and  I  like  that  in 
him,  though,  perhaps,  I  ought  not  to  have 
allowed  such  intimacy  between  them.* 

*  That  idea  is  prompted  by  .  .  .  your 
feelings  as  a  sister  ? '  Bazarov  brought  out, 
drawling. 

*  Of  course  .  ,  but  why  are  we  standing 
still?  Let  us  go  on.  What  a  strange  talk 
we  are  having,  aren't  we  ?  I  could  never  have 
believed  I  should  talk  to  you  like  this.  You 
know,  I  am  afraid  of  you  .  .  .  and  at  the  same 

316 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

time  I  trust  you,  because  in  reality  you  are  so 
good.' 

*  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  in  the  least  good  ; 
and  in  the  second  place,  I  have  lost  all  signi- 
ficance for  you,  and  you  tell  me  I  am  good.  .  .  . 
It 's  like  laying  a  wreath  of  flowers  on  the  head 
of  a  corpse.' 

*  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  we  are  not  responsible 
.  .  .'  Anna  Sergyevna  began  ;  but  a  gust  of 
wind  blew  across,  set  the  leaves  rustling,  and 
carried  away  her  words.  '  Of  course,  you  are 
free  .  .  .'  Bazarov  declared  after  a  brief  pause. 
Nothing  more  could  be  distinguished  ;  the  steps 
retreated  .  ,  .  everything  was  still. 

Arkady  turned  to  Katya.     She  was  sitting  in 

the  same  position,  but  her  head  was  bent  still 

lower.       Katerina  Sergyevna,'  he  said  with  a 

shaking  voice,  and  clasping  his  hands  tightly 

together,  *  I  love  you  for  ever  and  irrevocably, 

and  I  love  no  one  but  you.     I  wanted  to  tell  you 

this,  to  find  out  your  opinion  of  me,  and  to  ask 

for  your  hand,  since  I  am  not  rich,  and  I  feel 

ready  for  any  sacrifice.  .  .  .  You  don't  answer 

me?     You  don't  believe  me?      Do  you  think 

I    speak   lightly?      But   remember    these   last 

days !     Surely  for  a  long  time  past  you  must 

ave  known  that  everything — understand  me 

— everything  else  has  vanished  long  ago  and 

left  no  trace?     Look  at  me,  say  one  word  to 

317 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

me  ,  •  .  i  love  ...  I  love  you  .  .  .  believe 
me!' 

Katya  glanced  at  Arkady  with  a  bright  and 
serious  look,  and  after  long  hesitation,  with  the 
faintest  smile,  she  said,  *  Yes.' 

Arkady  leapt  up  from  the  stone  seat.  '  Yes ! 
You  said  Yes,  Katerina  Sergyevna  I  What 
does  that  word  mean  ?  Only  that  I  do  love 
you,  that  you  believe  me  ...  or  ...  or  ...  I 
daren't  go  on  .  .  .' 

'  Yes,'  repeated  Katya,  and  this  time  he  under- 
stood her.  He  snatched  her  large  beautiful 
hands,  and,  breathless  with  rapture,  pressed 
them  to  his  heart.  He  could  scarcely  stand 
on  his  feet,  and  could  only  repeat,  *  Katya, 
Katya  .  .  .'  while  she  began  weeping  in  a 
guileless  way,  smiling  gently  at  her  own  tears. 
No  one  who  has  not  seen  those  tears  in  the 
eyes  of  the  beloved,  knows  yet  to  wliat  a 
point,  faint  with  shame  and  gratitude,  a  man 
may  be  happy  on  earth. 

The  next  day,  early  in  the  morning,  Anna 
Sergyevna  sent  to  summon  Bazarov  to  her 
boudoir,  and  with  a  forced  laugh  handed 
him  a  folded  sheet  of  notepaper.  It  was  a 
letter  from  Arkady;  in  it  he  asked  for  her 
sister's  hand. 

Bazarov  quickly  scanned  the  letter,  and  made 
an  effort  to  control  himself,  that  he  might  not 

318 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

show  the  malignant  feeling  which  was  instan- 
taneously aflame  in  his  breast. 

'So  that's  how  it  is,'  he  commented;  *and 
you,  I  fancy,  only  yesterday  imagined  he  loved 
Katerina  Sergyevna  as  a  brother.  What  are 
you  intending  to  do  now  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  advise  me  ?  *  asked  Anna 
Sergyevna,  still  laughing. 

*  Well,  I  suppose,'  answered  Bazarov,  also  with 
a  laugh,though  he  felt  anything  but  cheerful, and 
had  no  more  inclination  to  laugh  than  she  had  ; 
*  1  suppose  you  ought  to  give  the  young  people 
your  blessing.  It's  a  good  match  in  every 
respect ;  Kirsanov's  position  is  passable,  he 's 
the  only  son,  and  his  father's  a  good-natured 
fellow,  he  won't  try  to  thwart  him.' 

Madame  Odintsov  walked  up  and  down  the 
room.  By  turns  her  face  flushed  and  grew  pale. 
'  You  think  so,'  she  said.  '  Well,  I  see  no 
obstacles  ...  I  am  glad  for  Katya.  .  .  .  and 
for  Arkady  Nikolaevitch  too.  Of  course,  I  will 
wait  for  his  father's  answer.  I  will  send  him  in 
person  to  him.  But  it  turns  out,  you  see,  that 
I  was  right  yesterday  when  I  told  you  we  were 
both  old  people.  .  .  .  How  was  it  I  saw  nothing  ? 
That 's  what  amazes  me  ! '  Anna  Sergyevna 
laughed  again,  and  quickly  turned  her  head 
away. 

'  The  younger  generation  have  grown  awfully 

319 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

sly/  remarked    Bazarov,  and   he   too  laughed. 

*  Good-bye/  he  began  again  after  a  short  silence. 

*  I  hope  you  will  bring  the  matter  to  the  most 
satisfactory  conclusion  ;  and  I  will  rejoice  from 
a  distance.' 

Madame   Odintsov   turned   quickly   to   him. 

*  You  are  not  going  away  ?  Why  should  you 
not  stay  now  ?  Stay  ...  it 's  exciting  talking 
to  you  .  .  .  one  seems  walking  on  the  edge  of 
a  precipice.  At  first  one  feels  timid,  but  one 
gains  courage  as  one  goes  on.     Do  stay.' 

*  Thanks  for  the  suggestion,  Anna  Sergyevna, 
and  for  your  flattering  opinion  of  my  conversa- 
tional talents.  But  I  think  I  have  already  been 
moving  too  long  in  a  sphere  which  is  not  my 
own.  Flying  fishes  can  hold  out  for  a  time  in 
the  air,  but  soon  they  must  splash  back  into  the 
water  ;  allow  me,  too,  to  paddle  in  my  own 
element' 

Madame  Odintsov  looked  at  Bazarov.  His 
pale  face  was  twitching  with  a  bitter  smile. 
'  This  man  did  love  me  ! '  she  thought,  and  she 
felt  pity  for  him,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him 
with  sympathy. 

But  he  too  understood  her.  *  No  ! '  he  said, 
stepping  back  a  pace.  '  I  'm  a  poor  man,  but 
I  've  never  taken  charity  so  far.  Good-bye,  and 
good  luck  to  you.' 

*  I  am  certain  we  are  not  seeing  each  other 

320 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

for  the  last  time,'  Anna  Sergyevna  declared  with 
an  unconscious  gesture. 

*  Anything  may  happen  ! '  answered  Bazarov, 
and  he  bowed  and  went  away. 

'  So  you  are  thinking  of  making  yourself  a 
nest  ? '  he  said  the  same  day  to  Arkady,  as 
he  packed  his  box,  crouching  on  the  floor. 
*  Well,  it 's  a  capital  thing.  But  you  needn't 
have  been  such  a  humbug.  I  expected  some- 
thing from  you  in  quite  another  quarter. 
Perhaps,  though,  it  took  you  by  surprise  your- 
self?' 

'  I  certainly  didn't  expect  this  when  I  parted 
from  you,'  answered  Arkady  ;  *  but  why  are 
you  a  humbug  yourself,  calling  it  "  a  capital 
thing,"  as  though  I  didn't  know  your  opinion  of 
marriage.' 

/  *  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,'  said  Bazarov,  *  how  you 
/  talk  !     You  see  what  I  'm  doing  ;  there  seems  j 
to  be  an  empty  space  in  the  box,  and  I  am': 
putting  hay  in  ;  that's  how  it  is  in  the  box  ofj 
our  life  ;  we  would  stuff  it  up  with  anything  j 
rather  than  have  a  void.     Don't   be  offended,; 
please ;  you  remember,  no  doubt,  the  opinion 
I   have   always    had    of    Katerina   Sergyevna. 
Many   a    young    lady's    called   clever  simply 
because  she  can  sigh  cleverly ;   but  yours  can 
hold  her  own,  and,  indeed,  she  '11  hold  it  so  well 
that  she'll  have  you  under  her  thumb — to  be 

^21  X 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

sure,  though,  that's  quite  as  it  ought  to  be.' 
He  slammed  the  lid  to,  and  got  up  from  the 
floor.  'And  now,  I  say  again,  good-bye,  for 
it 's  useless  to  deceive  ourselves — we  are  parting 
for  good,  and  you  know  that  yourself  .  .  .  you 
have  acted  sensibly ;  you  're  not  made  for  our 
bitter,  rough,  lonely  existence.  There's  no 
dash,  no  hate  in  you,  but  you  've  the  daring  of 
youth  and  the  fire  of  youth.  Your  sort,  you 
gentry,  can  never  get  beyond  refined  submission 
or  refined  indignation,  and  that 's  no  good.  You 
won't  fight — and  yet  you  fancy  yourselves 
gallant  chaps — but  we  mean  to  fight.  Oh  well ! 
Our  dust  would  get  into  your  eyes,  our  mud 
would  bespatter  you,  but  yet  you  're  not  up 
to  our  level,  you  're  admiring  yourselves  un- 
consciously, you  like  to  abuse  yourselves;  but 
we're  sick  of  that — we  want  something  else  ! 
we  want  to  smash  other  people !  You  're  a 
capital  fellow;  but  you  're  a  sugary,  liberal  snob 
for  all  that — ay  volla-too,  as  my  parent  is  fond 
of  saying.' 

*  You  are  parting  from  me  for  ever,  Yevgeny,' 
responded  Arkady  mournfully ;  *  and  have  you 
nothing  else  to  say  to  me  ? ' 

Bazarov  scratched  the  back  of  his  head.   *  Yes, 

Arkady,  yes,  I  have  other  things  to  say  to  you, 

but  I  'm  not  going  to  say  them,  because  that 's 

sentimentalism  —  that     means,     mawkishness. 

322 


a 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

And   you   get  married   as   soon  as   you   can  ; 

and  build  your  nest,  and  get  children  to  your 
heart's  content.  They  '11  have  the  wit  to  be  born 
in  a  better  time  than  you  and  me.  Aha ! 
I  see  the  horses  are  ready.  Time 's  up  !  I  've 
said  good-bye  to  every  one.  .  .  .  What  now  ? 
embracing,  eh  ? ' 

Arkady  flung  himself  on  the  neck  of  his 
former  leader  and  friend,  and  the  tears  fairly 
gushed  from  his  eyes. 

*  That's  what  comes  of  being  young  ! '  Bazarov 
commented  calmly.  *  But  I  rest  my  hopes  on 
Katerina  Sergyevna.  You  '11  see  how  quickly 
she  '11  console  you  !  Good-bye,  brother ! '  he  said 
to  Arkady  when  he  had  got  into  the  light  cart, 
and,  pointing  to  a  pair  of  jackdaws  sitting  side 
by  side  on  the  stable  roof,  he  added,  *  That 's 
for  you  !  follow  that  example.' 

*  What  does  that  mean  ? '  asked  Arkady. 

*  What  ?  Are  you  so  weak  in  natural  history, 
or  have  you  forgotten  that  the  jackdaw  is  a 
most  respectable  family  bird  ?  An  example  to 
you  !  .  .  .  Good-bye  ! ' 

The  cart  creaked  and  rolled  away 
Bazarov  had  spoken  truly.  In  talking  that 
evening  with  Katya,  Arkady  completely  forgot 
about  his  former  teacher.  He  already  began  to 
follow  her  lead,  and  Katya  was  conscious  of 
this,  and  not  surprised  at  it     He  was  to  set  off 

323 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

the  next  day  for  Maryino,  to  see  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch.  Anna  Sergyevna  was  not  disposed  to 
put  any  constraint  on  the  young  people,  and 
only  on  account  of  the  proprieties  did  not  leave 
them  by  themselves  for  too  long  together.  She 
magnanimously  kept  the  princess  out  of  their 
way ;  the  latter  had  been  reduced  to  a  state  of 
tearful  frenzy  by  the  news  of  the  proposed 
marriage.  At  first  Anna  Sergyevna  was  afraid 
the  sight  of  their  happiness  might  prove  rather 
trying  to  herself,  but  it  turned  out  quite  the 
other  way  ;  this  sight  not  only  did  not  distress 
her,  it  interested  her,  it  even  softened  her  at 
last.  Anna  Sergyevna  felt  both  glad  and  sorry 
at  this.  *  It  is  clear  that  Bazarov  was  right,' 
she  thought ;  *  it  has  been  curiosity,  nothing 
but  curiosity,  and  love  of  ease,  and  egoism  .  .  .' 

*  Children,'  she  said  aloud,  *  what  do  you  say, 
is  love  a  purely  imaginary  feeling  ? ' 

But  neither  Katya  nor  Arkady  even  under- 
stood her.  They  were  shy  with  her ;  the 
fragment  of  conversation  they  had  involuntarily 
overheard  haunted  their  minds.  But  Anna 
Sergyevna  soon  set  their  minds  at  rest ;  and  it 
was  not  difficult  for  her — she  had  set  her  own 
mind  at  rest 


324 


XXVII 

Bazarov'S  old  parents  were  all  the  more  over- 
joyed by  their  son's  arrival,  as  it  was  quite 
unexpected.  Arina  Vlasyevna  was  greatly 
excited,  and  kept  running  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  the  house,  so  that  Vassily  Ivanovitch 
compared  her  to  a  *  hen  partridge ' ;  the  short 
tail  of  her  abbreviated  jacket  did,  in  fact,  give  her 
something  of  a  birdlike  appearance.  He  himself 
merely  growled  and  gnawed  the  amber  mouth- 
piece of  his  pipe,  or,  clutching  his  neck  with  his 
fingers,  turned  his  head  round,  as  though  he 
were  trying  whether  it  were  properly  screwed 
on,  then  all  at  once  he  opened  his  wide  mouth 
and  went  off  into  a  perfectly  noiseless  chuckle. 

*  I  Ve  come  to  you  for  six  whole  weeks, 
governor,'  Bazarov  said  to  him.  *  I  want  to 
work,  so  please  don't  hinder  me  now.' 

'  You  shall  forget  my  face  completely,  if  you 

call  that   hindering    you  1 '     answered  Vassily 

Ivanovitch. 

He  kept  his  promise.    After  installing  his  son 

325 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

as  before  in  his  study,  he  almost  hid  himself 
away  from  him,  and  he  kept  his  wife  from  all 
superfluous  demonstrations  of  tenderness.  *  On 
Enyusha's  first  visit,  my  dear  soul,'  he  said 
to  her,  '  we  bothered  him  a  little ;  we  must  be 
wiser  this  time.'  Arina  Vlasyevna  agreed  with 
her  husband,  but  that  was  small  compensation 
since  she  saw  her  son  only  at  meals,  and  was 
now  absolutely  afraid  to  address  him,  *  En- 
yushenka,'  she  would  say  sometimes — and  before 
he  had  time  to  look  round,  she  was  nervously 
fingering  the  tassels  of  her  reticule  and  faltering, 
'  Never  mind,  never  mind,  I  only '  and  after- 
wards she  would  go  to  Vassily  Ivanovitch  and, 
her  cheek  in  her  hand,  would  consult  him  :  *  If 
you  could  only  find  out,  darling,  which  Enyusha 
would  like  for  dinner  to-day — cabbage-broth 
or  beetroot-soup  ? ' — *  But  why  didn't  you  ask 
him  yourself?  ' — *  Oh,  he  will  get  sick  of  me  !  * 
Bazarov,  however,  soon  ceased  to  shut  himself 
up ;  the  fever  of  work  fell  away,  and  was  replaced 
by  dreary  boredom  or  vague  restlessness.  A 
strange  weariness  began  to  show  itself  in  all 
his  movements ;  even  his  walk,  firm,  bold  and 
strenuous,  was  changed.  He  gave  up  walking 
in  solitude,  and  began  to  seek  society  ;  he  drank 
tea  in  the  drawing-room,  strolled  about  the 
kitchen-garden   with   Vassily    Ivanovitch,    and 

smoked  with  him  in  silence ;  once  even  asked 

326 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

after  Father  Alexey.  Vassily  Ivanovitch  at  first 
rejoiced  at  this  change,  but  his  joy  was  not 
long-lived.  '  Enyusha's  breaking  my  heart,'  he 
complained  in  secret  to  his  wife  :  *  it 's  not  that 
he's  discontented  or  angry — that  would  be 
nothing  ;  he 's  sad,  he  's  sorrowful — that 's 
what's  so  terrible.  He 's  always  silent.  If  he  'd 
only  abuse  us  ;  he 's  growing  thin,  he 's  lost  his 
colour.' — '  Mercy  on  us,  mercy  on  us ! '  whis- 
pered the  old  woman  ;  *  I  would  put  an  amulet 
on  his  neck,  but,  of  course,  he  won't  allow  it.' 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  several  times  attempted  in 
the  most  circumspect  manner  to  question  Baz- 
arov  about  his  work,  about  his  health,  and 
about  Arkady.  .  .  .  But  Bazarov's  replies  were 
reluctant  and  casual ;  and,  once  noticing  that  his 
father  was  trying  gradually  to  lead  up  to  some- 
thing in  conversation,  he  said  to  him  in  a  tone 
of  vexation  :  '  Why  do  you  always  seem  to  be 
walking  round  me  on  tiptoe?  That  way's  worse 
than  the  old  one.' — 'There,  there,  I  meant 
nothing ! '  poor  Vassily  Ivanovitch  answered 
hurriedly.  So  his  diplomatic  hints  remained 
fruitless.  He  hoped  to  awaken  his  son's 
sympathy  one  day  by  beginning,  a  propos  of 
the  approaching  emancipation  of  the  peasantry, 
to  talk  about  progress  ;  but  the  latter  responded 
indifferently  :  *  Yesterday  I  was  walking  under 
the  fence,  and  I  heard  the  peasant  boys  here, 

327 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

instead  of  some  old  ballad,  bawling  a  street 
song.     That 's  what  progress  is.' 

Sometimes  Bazarov  went  into  the  village, 
and  in  his  usual  bantering  tone  entered  into 
conversation  with  some  peasant :  *  Come,'  he 
would  say  to  him,  *  expound  your  views  on  life 
to  me,  brother  ;  you  see,  they  say  all  the  strength 
and  future  of  Russia  lies  in  your  hands,  a  new 
epoch  in  history  will  be  started  by  you — you 
give  us  our  real  language  and  our  laws.' 

The  peasant  either  made  no  reply,  or  articu- 
lated a  few  words  of  this  sort, '  Well,  we  '11  try 
.  .  .  because,  you  see,  to  be  sure.  .  .  .* 

*  You  explain  to  me  what  your  mir  is,'  Baza- 
rov interrupted ;  '  and  is  it  the  same  mir  that 
is  said  to  rest  on  three  fishes  ? ' 

*  That,  little  father,  is  the  earth  that  rests  on 
three  fishes,'  the  peasant  would  declare  sooth- 
ingly, in  a  kind  of  patriarchal,  simple-hearted 
sing-song  ;  *  and  over  against  ours,  that 's  to 
say,  the  ;«/>,  we  know  there's  the  master's  will ; 
wherefore  you  are  our  fathers.  And  the 
stricter  the  master's  rule,  the  better  for  the 
peasant.' 

After  listening  to  such  a  reply  one  day, 
Bazarov  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously 
and  turned  away,  while  the  peasant  sauntered 
slowly  homewards. 

*  What   was    he    talking    about  ? '    inquired 

328 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

another  peasant  of  middle  age  and  surly  aspect, 
who  at  a  distance  from  the  door  of  his  hut  had 
been  following  his  conversation  with  Bazarov. — 
'  Arrears  ?  eh  ?  * 

*  Arrears,  no  indeed,  mate ! '  answered  the 
first  peasant,  and  now  there  was  no  trace  of 
patriarchal  singsong  in  his  voice  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, there  was  a  certain  scornful  grufifness  to 
be  heard  in  it :  'Oh,  he  clacked  away  about  some- 
thing or  other ;  wanted  to  stretch  his  tongue  a 
bit.  Of  course,  h^  's  a  gentleman ;  what  does 
he  understand  ? ' 

*  What  should  he  understand  ! '  answered  the 
other  peasant,  and  jerking  back  their  caps  and 
pushing  down  their  belts,  they  proceeded  to 
deliberate  upon  their  work  and  their  wants. 
Alas  !  Bazarov,  shrugging  his  shoulders  con- 
temptuously, Bazarov,  who  knew  how  to  talk  to 
peasants  (as  he  had  boasted  in  his  dispute 
with  Pavel  Petrovitch),  did  not  in  his  self- 
confidence  even  suspect  that  in  their  eyes  he 
was  all  the  while  something  of  the  nature  of  a| 
buffooning  clown. 

He  found  employment  for  himself  at  last, 
however.  One  day  Vassily  Ivanovitch  bound  up 
a  peasant's  wounded  leg  before  him,  but  the  old 
man's  hands  trembled,  and  he  could  not  managc- 
tlie  bandages  ;  his  son  helped  him,  and  from  time 
to  time  began  to  take  a  share  in  his  practice, 

329 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

though  at  the  same  time  he  was  constantly 
sneering  both  at  the  remedies  he  himself  advised 
and  at  his  father,  who  hastened  to  make  use  of 
them.  But  Bazarov's  jeers  did  not  in  the  least 
perturb  Vassily  Ivanovitch  ;  they  were  posi- 
tively a  comfort  to  him.  Holding  his  greasy 
dressing-gown  across  his  stomach  with  two 
fingers,  and  smoking  his  pipe,  he  used  to  listen 
with  enjoyment  to  Bazarov ;  and  the  more 
malicious  his  sallies,  the  more  good-humouredly 
did  his  delighted  father  chuckle,  showing  every 
one  of  his  black  teeth.  He  used  even  to  repeat 
these  sometimes  flat  or  pointless  retorts,  and 
would,  for  instance,  for  several  days  constantly 
without  rhyme  or  reason,  reiterate, '  Not  a  matter 
of  the  first  importance!'  simply  because  his  son, 
on  hearing  he  was  going  to  matins,  had  made 
use  of  that  expression.  *  Thank  God  !  he  has 
got  over  his  melancholy ! '  he  whispered  to  his 
wife  ;  *  how  he  gave  it  to  me  to-day,  it  was 
splendid  ! '  Moreover,  the  idea  of  having  such 
an  assistant  excited  him  to  ecstasy,  filled  him 
with  pride.  *  Yes,  yes,'  he  would  say  to  some 
peasant  woman  in  a  man's  cloak,  and  a  cap 
shaped  like  a  horn,  as  he  handed  her  a  bottle 
of  Goulard's  extract  or  a  box  of  white  ointment, 
*you  ought  to  be  thanking  God,  my  good 
woman,  every  minute  that  my  son  is  staying 
with  me ;  you  will  be  treated  now  by  the  most 

330 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

scientific,  most  modern  method.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means  ?  The  Emperor  of  the  French, 
Napoleon,  even,  has  no  better  doctor.'  And  the 
peasant  woman,  who  had  come  to  complain 
that  she  felt  so  sort  of  queer  all  over  (the  exact 
meaning  of  these  words  she  was  not  able,  how- 
ever, herself  to  explain),  merely  bowed  low  and 
rummaged  in  her  bosom,  where  four  eggs  lay 
tied  up  in  the  corner  of  a  towel. 

Bazarov  once  even  pulled  out  a  tooth  for  a 
passing  pedlar  of  cloth  ;  and  though  this  tooth 
was  an  average  specimen,  Vassily  Ivanovitch 
preserved  it  as  a  curiosity,  and  incessantly 
repeated,  as  he  showed  it  to  Father  Alexey, 
*  Just  look,  what  a  fang !  The  force  Yevgeny 
has !  The  pedlar  seemed  to  leap  into  the 
air.  If  it  had  been  an  oak,  he'd  have  rooted 
it  up ! ' 

*  Most  promising ! '  Father  Alexey  would 
comment  at  last,  not  knowing  what  answer  to 
make,  and  how  to  get  rid  of  the  ecstatic  old 
man. 

One  day  a  peasant  from  a  neighbouring 
village  brought  his  brother  to  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch, ill  with  typhus.  The  unhappy  man,  lying 
flat  on  a  truss  of  straw,  was  dying ;  his  body 
was  covered  with  dark  patches,  he  had  long 
ago  lost  consciousness.  Vassily  Ivanovitch  ex- 
pressed his  regret  that  no  one  had  taken  steps  to 

331 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

procure  medical  aid  sooner,  and  declared  there 
was  no  hope.  And,  in  fact,  the  peasant  did  not 
get  his  brother  home  again  ;  he  died  in  the 
cart 

Three  days  later  Bazarov  came  into  his 
father's  room  and  asked  him  if  he  had  any- 
caustic. 

*  Yes  ;  what  do  you  want  it  for  ? ' 

'  I  must  have  some  ...  to  burn  a  cut.' 

*  For  whom  ? ' 
'  For  myself.* 

What,  yourself?     Why  is  that  ?     What  sort 
of  a  cut  ?     Where  is  it  ? ' 

*  Look  here,  on  my  finger.  I  went  to-day  to 
the  village,  you  know,  where  they  brought  that 
peasant  with  typhus  fever.  They  were  just 
going  to  open  the  body  for  some  reason  or 
other,  and  I  've  had  no  practice  of  that  sort  for 
a  long  while.' 

*Well.?' 

*  Well,  so  I  asked  the  district  doctor  about  it ; 
and  so  I  dissected  it.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  all  at  once  turned  quite 
white,  and,  without  uttering  a  word,  rushed  to 
his  study,  from  which  he  returned  at  once  with 
a  bit  of  caustic  in  his  hand.  Bazarov  was 
about  to  take  it  and  go  away. 

'  For  mercy's  sake,'  said  Vassily  Ivanovitch, 

'  let  me  do  it  myself.' 

332 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Razarov  smiled.  *What  a  devoted  practi- 
tioner ! ' 

'  Don't  laugh,  please.  Show  me  your  finger. 
The  cut  is  not  a  large  one.     Do  I  hurt  ?  ' 

*  Press  harder  ;   don't  be  afraid.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  stopped.  *  What  do  you 
think,  Yevgeny ;  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  burn 
it  with  hot  iron  } ' 

*  That  ought  to  have  been  done  sooner  ;  the 
caustic  even  is  useless,  really,  now.  If  I  've 
taken  the  infection,  it 's  too  late  now.' 

*  How  ,  .  .  too  late  .  .'  Vassily  Ivanovitch 
could  scarcely  articulate  the  words. 

'  I  should  think  so !  It 's  more  than  four 
hours  ago.' 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  burnt  the  cut  a  little  more. 
'  But  had  the  district  doctor  no  caustic  ? ' 

•No.' 

*  How  was  that,  good  Heavens  ?  A  doctor 
not  have  such  an  indispensable  thing  as  that ! ' 

*  You  should  have  seen  his  lancets,'  observed 
Bazarov  as  he  walked  away. 

Up  till  late  that  evening,  and  all  the  following 
day,  Vassily  Ivanovitch  kept  catching  at  every 
possible  excuse  to  go  into  his  son's  room  ;  and 
though  far  from  referring  to  the  cut — he  even 
tried  to  talk  about  the  most  irrelevant  subjects — 
he  looked  so  persistently  into  his  face,  and 
watched  him  in  such  trepidation,  that  Bazarov 

333 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

lost  patience  and  threatened  to  go  away.  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  gave  him  a  promise  not  to  bother 
him,  the  more  readily  as  Arina  Vlasyevna,  from 
whom,  of  course,  he  kept  it  all  secret,  was 
beginning  to  worry  him  as  to  why  he  did  not 
sleep,  and  what  had  come  over  him.  For  two 
whole  days  he  held  himself  in,  though  he  did 
not  at  all  like  the  look  of  his  son,  whom  he  kept 
watching  stealthily,  .  .  .  but  on  the  third  day,  at 
dinner,  he  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Bazarov 
sat  with  downcast  looks,  and  had  not  touched 
a  single  dish. 

'  Why  don't  you  eat,  Yevgeny  ? '  he  inquired, 
putting  on  an  expression  of  the  most  perfect 
carelessness.  '  The  food,  I  think,  is  very  nicely 
cooked.' 

*  I  don't  want  anything,  so  I  don't  eat' 

*  Have  you  no  appetite  ?  And  your  head  ? ' 
he  added  timidly  ;  '  does  it  ache  ? ' 

*  Yes.     Of  course,  it  aches.' 

Arina  Vlasyevna  sat  up  and  was  all  alert. 

*  Don't  be  angry,  please,  Yevgeny,'  continued 
Vassily  Ivanovitch ;  '  won't  you  let  me  feel 
your  pulse  ? ' 

Bazarov  got  up.  *  I  can  tell  you  without 
feeling  my  pulse  ;  I  'm  feverish.' 

*  Has  there  been  any  shivering  ? ' 

*  Yes,  there  has  been  shivering  too.  I  'P 
go   and    lie    down,    and    you    can    send    me 

334 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

some   lime-flower  tea,      I   must    have   caught 
cold.' 

*  To  be  sure,  I  heard  you  coughing  last  night/ 
observed  Arina  Vlasyevna. 

*  I  Ve  caught  cold,'  repeated  Bazarov,  and  he 
went  away 

Arina  Vlasyevna  busied  herself  about  the 
preparation  of  the  decoction  of  lime-flowers, 
while  Vassily  Ivanovitch  went  into  the  next 
room  and  clutched  at  his  hair  in  silent  despe- 
ration. 

-^  Bazarov  did  not  get  up  again  that  day,  and 
passed  the  whole  night  in  heavy,  half-uncon- 
scious torpor.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
opening  his  eyes  with  an  effort,  he  saw  by  the 
light  of  a  lamp  his  father's  pale  face  bending 
over  him,  and  told  him  to  go  away.  The  old 
man  begged  his  pardon,  but  he  quickly  came 
back  on  tiptoe,  and  half-hidden  by  the  cup- 
board door,  he  gazed  persistently  at  his  son. 
Arina  Vlasyevna  did  not  go  to  bed  either,  and 
leaving  the  study  door  just  open  a  very  little, 
she  kept  coming  up  to  it  to  listen  *  how  Enyusha 
was  breathing,'  and  to  look  at  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch. She  could  see  nothing  but  his  motion- 
less bent  back,  but  even  that  afforded  her  some 
faint  consolation.  In  the  morning  Bazarov 
tried  to  get  up  ;  he  was  seized  with  giddiness, 
his  nose  began  to  bleed ;  he  lay  down  again, 

335 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  waited  on  him  in  silence  ; 
Arina  Vlasyevna  went  in  to  him  and  asked  him 
how  he  was  feeling.  He  answered,  *  Better/ 
and  turned  to  the  wall.  Vassily  Ivanovitch 
gesticulated  at  his  wife  with  both  hands  ;  she 
bit  her  lips  so  as  not  to  cry,  and  went  away. 
The  whole  house  seemed  suddenly  darkened ; 
every  one  looked  gloomy ;  there  was  a  strange 
hush ;  a  shrill  cock  was  carried  away  from  the 
yard  to  the  village,  unable  to  comprehend  why 
he  should  be  treated  so.  Bazarov  still  lay, 
turned  to  the  wall.  Vassily  Ivanovitch  tried 
to  address  him  with  various  questions,  but  they 
fatigued  Bazarov,  and  the  old  man  sank  into 
his  arm-chair,  motionless,  only  cracking  his  finger- 
joints  now  and  then.  He  went  for  a  few  minutes 
into  the  garden,  stood  there  like  a  statue,  as 
though  overwhelmed  with  unutterable  bewilder- 
ment (the  expression  of  amazement  never  left 
his  face  all  through),  and  went  back  again  to 
his  son,  trying  to  avoid  his  wife's  questions. 
She  caught  him  by  the  arm  at  last,  and  pas- 
sionately, almost  menacingly,  said,  *  What  is 
wrong  with  him  ? '  Then  he  came  to  himself, 
and  forced  himself  to  smile  at  her  in  reply  ;  but 
to  his  own  horror,  instead  of  a  smile,  he  found 
himself  taken  somehow  by  a  fit  of  laughter. 
He  had  sent  at  daybreak  for  a  doctor.  He 
thought  it  necessary  to  inform  his  son  of  this, 

336 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

for  fear  he  should  be  angry.  Bazarov  suddenly 
turned  over  on  the  sofa,  bent  a  fixed  dull  look 
on  his  father,  and  asked  for  drink. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  gave  him  some  water,  and 
as  he  did  so  felt  his  forehead.  It  seemed  on 
fire. 

*  Governor,'  began  Bazarov,  in  a  slow,  drowsy 
voice  ;  *  I'm  in  a  bad  way  ;  I  Ve  got  the  infec- 
tion, and  in  a  few  days  you  '11  have  to  bury  me, 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  staggered  back,  as  though 
some  one  had  aimed  a  blow  at  his  legs. 

*  Yevgeny  ! '  he  faltered  ;  '  what  do  you  mean  ! 
.  .  .  God  have  mercy  on  you  !  You  've  caught 
cold  ! ' 

*  Hush  ! '  Bazarov  interposed  deliberately.  '  A 
doctor  can't  be  allowed  to  talk  like  that.  There 's 
every  symptom  of  infection ;  you  know  yourself.' 

*  Where  are  the  symptoms  ...  of  infection 
Yevgeny  ?  .  .  .  Good  Heavens  !  * 

*  What 's  this  ? '  said  Bazarov,  and,  pulling  up 
his  shirt-sleeve,  he  showed  his  father  the  omin- 
ous red  patches  coming  out  on  his  arm. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  was  shaking  and  chill  with 
terror. 

*  Supposing,'  he  said  at  last,  *  even  supposing 
.  .  .  if  even  there's  something  like  .  .  .  infec- 
tion .  .  .' 

*  Pyaemia,'  put  in  his  son. 

^  Well,  well  .  .  .  something  of  the  epidemic  . . . 

337  Y 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  Pyaemia/  Bazarov  repeated  sharply  and  dis- 
tinctly ;  '  have  you  forgotten  your  text-books  ? ' 

'  Well,  well — as  you  like.  .  .  .  Anyway,  we 
will  cure  you  ! ' 

*  Come,  that 's  humbug.  But  that 's  not  the 
point.  I  didn't  expect  to  die  so  soon  ;  it 's  a 
most  unpleasant  incident,  to  tell  the  truth.  You 
and  mother  ought  to  make  the  most  of  your 
strong  religious  belief;  now's  the  time  to  put 
it  to  the  test.'  He  drank  off  a  little  water. 
'  I  want  to  ask  you  about  one  thing  .  .  .  while 
my  head  is  still  under  my  control.  To-morrow 
or  next  day  my  brain,  you  know,  will  send  in 
its  resignation.  I  'm  not  quite  certain  even  now 
whether  I  'm  expressing  myself  clearly.  While 
I  've  been  lying  here,  I  've  kept  fancying  red 
dogs  were  running  round  me,  while  you  were 
making  them  point  at  me,  as  if  I  were  a  wood- 
cock. Just  as  if  I  were  drunk.  Do  you  under- 
stand me  all  right  ? ' 

*  I  assure  you,  Yevgeny,  you  are  talking  per- 
fectly correctly.' 

*  All  the  better.  You  told  me  you  'd  sent  for 
the  doctor.  You  did  that  to  comfort  yourself 
,  .  .  comfort  me  too  ;  send  a  messenger  .  .  .' 

*  To  Arkady  Nikolaitch  ? '  put  in  the  old  man. 

*  Who 's  Arkady  Nikolaitch  ? '  said  Bazarov, 
as  though  in  doubt ...  *  Oh,  yes  !  that  chicken  ! 
No,  let  him  alone;  he's  turned  jackdaw  now. 

338 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

Don't  be  surprised ;  that 's  not  delirium  yet 
You  send  a  messenger  to  Madame  Odintsov, 
Anna  Sergyevna ;  she 's  a  lady  with  an  estate. 
.  .  .  Do  you  know  ? '  (Vassily  Ivanovitch 
nodded.)  '  Yevgeny  Bazarov,  say,  sends  his 
greetings,  and  sends  word  he  is  dying.  Will 
you  do  that  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  will  do  it.  . . .  But  is  it  a  possible  thing 
for  you  to  die,  Yevgeny  ?  .  .  .  Think  only ! 
Where  would  divine  justice  be  after  that  ? ' 

*  I  know  nothing  about  that ;  only  you  send 
the  messenger.' 

'  I  '11  send  this  minute,  and  I  '11  write  a  letter 
myself 

*  No,  why  ?  Say  I  sent  greetings  ;  nothing 
more  is  necessary.  And  now  I  '11  go  back  to 
my  dogs.  Strange  !  I  want  to  fix  my  thoughts 
on  death,  and  nothing  comes  of  it.  I  see  a  kind 
of  blur  .  .  .  and  nothing  more.' 

He  turned  painfully  back  to  the  wall  again  ; 
while  Vassily  Ivanovitch  went  out  of  the  study, 
and  struggling  as  far  as  his  wife's  bedroom, 
simply  dropped  down  on  to  his  knees  before 
the  holy  pictures. 

*  Pray,  Arina,  pray  for  us  !  *  he  moaned ;  *  our 
son  is  dying.' 

The  doctor,  the  same  district  doctor  who  had 
had  no  caustic,  arrived,  and  after  looking  at  the 
patient,  advised  them  to  persevere  with  a  cooling 

339 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

treatment,  and  at  that  point  said  a  few  words  of 
the  chance  of  recovery. 

'  Have  you  ever  chanced  to  see  people  in  my 
state  not  set  off  for  Elysium  ?  '  asked  Bazarov, 
and  suddenly  snatching  the  leg  of  a  heavy  table 
that  stood  near  his  sofa,  he  swung  it  round, 
and  pushed  it  away.  *  There 's  strength,  there's 
strength,'  he  murmured ;  *  everything 's  here  still, 
and  I  must  die  !  .  .  .  An  old  man  at  least  has 
time  to  be  weaned  from  life,  but  I  .  .  .  Well, 
go  and  try  to  disprove  death.  Death  will  dis- 
prove you,  and  that 's  all !  Who 's  crying  there  ?' 
he  added,  after  a  short  pause. — *  Mother  ?  Poor 
thing !  Whom  will  she  feed  now  with  her 
exquisite  beetroot-soup  ?  You,  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch,  whimpering  too,  I  do  believe  !  Why,  if 
Christianity 's  no  help  to  you,  be  a  philosopher, 
a  Stoic,  or  what  not !  Why,  didn't  you  boast 
you  were  a  philosopher  ?  ' 

*  Me  a  philosopher  ! '  wailed  Vassily  Ivano- 
vitch,  while  the  tears  fairly  streamed  down  his 
cheeks. 

Bazarov  got  worse  every  hour  ;  the  progress 

of  the  disease  was  rapid,  as  is  usually  the  way 

in  cases  of  surgical  poisoning.     He  still  had  not 

lost   consciousness,  and    understood  what  was 

said  to  him  ;  he  was  still  struggling.     *  I  don't 

want  to  lose  my  wits,'  he  muttered,  clenching 

his  fists  ;   *  what  rot  it  all  is  I '      And  at  once 

340 


FATHERS    AND   CHILDREN 

he  would  say, '  Come,  take  ten  from  eight,  what 
remains  ? '  Vassily  Ivanovitch  wandered  about 
like  one  possessed,  proposed  first  one  remedy, 
then  another,  and  ended  by  doing  nothing  but 
cover  up  his  son's  feet.  *  Try  cold  pack  .  .  . 
emetic  .  .  .  mustard  plasters  on  the  stomach  .  .  . 
bleeding,'  he  would  murmur  v/ith  an  effort.  The 
doctor,  whom  he  had  entreated  to  remain,  agreed 
with  him,  ordered  the  patient  lemonade  to  drink, 
and  for  himself  asked  for  a  pipe  and  something 

*  warming  and  strengthening ' — that 's  to  say, 
brandy.  Arina  Vlasyevna  sat  on  a  low  stool 
near  the  door,  and  only  went  out  from  time  to 
time  to  pray.  A  few  days  before,  a  looking- 
glass  had  slipped  out  of  her  hands  and  been 
broken,  and  this  she  had  always  considered  an 
omen  of  evil ;  even  Anfisushka  could  say  nothing 
to  her.  Timofeitch  had  gone  off  to  Madame 
Odintsov's. 

The  night  passed  badly  for  Bazarov.  .  .  .  He 
was  in  the  agonies  of  high  fever.  Towards 
morning  he  was  a  little  easier.  He  asked  for 
Arina  Vlasyevna  to  comb  his  hair,  kissed  her 
hand,  and  swallowed  two  gulps  of  tea.  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  revived  a  little. 

*  Thank  God  ! '  he  kept  declaring  ;  *  the  crisis 
is  coming,  the  crisis  is  at  hand  ! ' 

'  There,  to  think  now  ! '  murmured  Bazarov  ; 

*  what  a  word  can  do  !    He 's  found  it ;  he  's  said 

341 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"crisis,"  and  is  comforted.  It's  an  astounding 
thing  how  man  believes  in  words.  If  he  's  told 
he 's  a  fool,  for  instance,  though  he 's  not 
thrashed,  he  '11  be  wretched  ;  call  him  a  clever 
fellow,  and  he'll  be  delighted  if  you  go  off 
without  paying  him.' 

This  little  speech  of  Bazarov's,  recalling  his 
old  retorts,  moved  Vassily  Ivanovitch  greatly. 

*  Bravo !  well  said,  very  good  ! '  he  cried, 
making  as  though  he  were  clapping  his  hands, 

Bazarov  smiled  mournfully. 

*  So  what  do  you  think,'  he  said  ;  *  is  the  crisis 
over,  or  coming  ?  * 

'  You  are  better,  that 's  what  I  see,  that 's  what 
rejoices  me,'  answered  Vassily  Ivanovitch. 

^  Well,  that's  good;  rejoicings  never  come 
amiss.  And  to  her,  do  you  remember  ?  did  you 
send  ? ' 

*  To  be  sure  I  did.' 

The  change  for  the  better  did  not  last  long. 
The  disease  resumed  its  onslaughts.  Vassily 
Ivanovitch  was  sitting  by  Bazarov.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  old  man  were  tormented  by 
some  special  anguish.  He  was  several  times 
on  the  point  of  speaking — and  could  not. 

'  Yevgeny  ! '  he  brought  out  at  last ;  *  my  son, 
my  one,  dear  son  ! ' 

This  unfamiliar  mode  of  address  produced  an 

effect  on  Bazarov.     He  turned  his  head  a  little. 

342 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

and,  obviously  trying  to  fight  against  the  load 
of  oblivion  weighing  upon  him,  he  articulated  : 
'  What  is  it,  father  ? ' 

*  Yevgeny,'  Vassily  Ivanovitch  went  on,  and 
he  fell  on  his  knees  before  Bazarov,  though  the 
latter  had  closed  his  eyes  and  could  not  see  him. 
*  Yevgeny,  you  are  better  now ;  please  God, 
you  will  get  well,  but  make  use  of  this  time, 
comfort  your  mother  and  me,  perform  the  duty 
of  a  Christian  !  What  it  means  for  me  to  say 
this  to  you,  it 's  awful ;  but  still  more  awful  .  .  . 
for  ever  and  ever,  Yevgeny  .  .  .  think  a  little, 
what  .  .  .' 

The  old  man's  voice  broke,  and  a  strange  look 
passed  over  his  son's  face,  though  he  still  lay 
with  closed  eyes. 

*  I  won't  refuse,  if  that  can  be  any  comfort  to 
you,'  he  brought  out  at  last ;  *  but  it  seems  to 
me  there 's  no  need  to  be  in  a  hurry.  You  say 
yourself  I  am  better.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  Yevgeny,  better  certainly  ;  but  who 
knows,  it  is  all  in  God's  hands,  and  in  doing  the 
duty  .  .  .' 

*  No,  I  will  wait  a  bit,'  broke  in  Bazarov.  *  I 
agree  with  you  that  the  crisis  has  come.  And 
if  we  're  mistaken,  well !  they  give  the  sacrament 
to  men  who  're  unconscious,  you  know.' 

*  Yevgeny,  I  beg.' 

*  I  '11  wait  a  little.     And  now  I  want  to  go 

343 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

to  sleep.  Don't  disturb  me.'  And  he  laid  his 
head  back  on  the  pillow. 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  knees,  sat  down  in 
the  armchair,  and,  clutching  his  beard,  began 
biting  his  own  fingers  .  ,  . 

The  sound  of  a  light  carriage  on  springs,  that 
sound  which  is  peculiarly  impressive  in  the 
wilds  of  the  country,  suddenly  struck  upon  his 
hearing.  Nearer  and  nearer  rolled  the  light 
wheels  ;  now  even  the  neighing  of  the  horses 
could  be  heard.  .  .  .  Vassily  Ivanovitch  jumped 
up  and  ran  to  the  little  window.  There  drove 
into  the  courtyard  of  his  little  house  a  car- 
riage with  seats  for  two,  with  four  horses 
harnessed  abreast.  Without  stopping  to  con- 
sider what  it  could  mean,  with  a  rush  of  a  sort 
of  senseless  joy,  he  ran  out  on  to  the  steps.  .  .  . 
A  groom  in  livery  was  opening  the  carriage 
doors  ;  a  lady  in  a  black  veil  and  a  black  mantle 
was  getting  out  of  it  .  .  . 

'I  am  Madame  Odintsov,'  she  said.  *  Yevgeny 
Vassilyitch  is  still  living  ?  You  are  his  father  ? 
I  have  a  doctor  with  me.' 

*  Benefactress  ! '  cried  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  and 
snatching  her  hand,  he  pressed  it  convulsively 
to  his  lips,  while  the  doctor  brought  by  Anna 
Sergyevna,  a  little  man  in  spectacles,  of  German 
physiognomy,  stepped  very  deliberately  out  of 
the  carriage.     '  Still  living,  my  Yevgeny  is  living, 

344 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

and  now  he  will  be  saved !     Wife  !  wife  I  .  .  , 
An  angel  from  heaven  has  come  to  us.  .  .  .* 

*  What  does  it  mean,  good  Lord  ! '  faltered  the 
old  woman,  running  out  of  the  drawing-room  ; 
and,  comprehending  nothing,  she  fell  on  the  spot 
in  the  passage  at  Anna  Sergyevna's  feet,  and 
began  kissing  her  garments  like  a  mad  woman. 

*  What  are  you  doing  ! '  protested  Anna  Serg- 
yevna  ;  but  Arina  Vlasyevna  did  not  heed  her, 
while  Vassily  Ivanovitch  could  only  repeat,  '  An 
angel !  an  angel ! ' 

*  Wo  ist  der  Krankef  and  where  is  the 
patient  ? '  said  the  doctor  at  last,  with  some 
impatience. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  recovered  himself.  '  Here, 
here,  follow  me,  wiirdigster  Herr  Collega,' 
he  added  through  old  associations. 

*  Ah ! '  articulated  the  German,  grinning 
sourly. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  led  him  into  the  study. 
*  The  doctor  from  Anna  Sergyevna  Odintsov,' 
he  said,  bending  down  quite  to  his  son's  ear, '  and 
she  herself  is  here.' 

Bazarov  suddenly  opened  his  eyes.  'What 
did  you  say  ?  ' 

*  I  say  that  Anna  Sergyevna  is  here,  and  has 
brought  this  gentleman,  a  doctor,  to  you.' 

Bazarov  moved  his  eyes  about  him.  '  She  is 
here.  ...  I  want  to  see  her.' 

345 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

*  You  shall  see  her,  Yevgeny  ;  but  first  we 
must  have  a  little  talk  with  the  doctor.  I  will 
tell  him  the  whole  history  of  your  illness  since 
Sidor  Sidoritch '  (this  was  the  name  of  the  dis- 
trict doctor)  *  has  gone,  and  we  will  have  a  little 
consultation.' 

Bazarov  glanced  at  the  German.  *  Well,  talk 
away  quickly,  only  not  in  Latin  ;  you  see,  I  know 
the  meaning  oijam  nioritur! 

'  Der  Herr  scheint  des  Deutschen  mdchtig  zu 
seinl  began  the  new  follower  of  iEsculapius, 
turning  to  Vassily  Ivanovitch. 

^  Ich  .  .  .  gabe  .  .  .  We  had  better  speak 
Russian,'  said  the  old  man. 

*  Ah,  ah  !  so  that 's  how  it  is.  ...  To  be 
sure  .  .  .'  And  the  consultation  began. 

Half-an-hour  later  Anna  Sergyevna,  conducted 
by  Vassily  Ivanovitch,  came  into  the  study. 
The  doctor  had  had  time  to  whisper  to  her  that 
it  was  hopeless  even  to  think  of  the  patient's 
recovery. 

She  looked  at  Bazarov  .  .  .  and  stood  still  in 
the  doorway,  so  greatly  was  she  impressed  by 
the  inflamed,  and  at  the  same  time  deathly  face, 
with  its  dim  eyes  fastened  upon  her.  She  felt 
simply  dismayed,  with  a  sort  of  cold  and  suffo- 
cating dismay  ;  the  thought  that  she  would  not 
have  felt  like  that  if  she  had  really  loved  him 
flashed  instantaneously  through  her  braia 

346 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

'  Thanks,'  he  said  painfully,  *  I  did  not  expect 
this.  It 's  a  deed  of  mercy.  So  we  have  seen 
each  other  again,  as  you  promised.' 

'  Anna  Sergyevna  has  been  so  kind,'  began 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  .  .  . 

*  Father,  leave  us  alone.  Anna  Sergyevna,  you 
will  allow  it,  I  fancy,  now  ? ' 

With  a  motion  of  his  head,  he  indicated  his 
prostrate  helpless  frame. 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  went  out. 

'  Well,  thanks,*  repeated  Bazarov.  *  This  is 
royally  done.  Monarchs,  they  say,  visit  the 
dying  too.' 

*  Yevgeny  Vassilyitch,  I  hope * 

*  Ah,  Anna  Sergyevna,  let  us  speak  the  truth, 
It 's  all  over  with  me.  I  'm  under  the  wheel. 
So  it  turns  out  that  it  was  useless  to  think  of 
the  future.  Death 's  an  old  joke,  but  it  comes 
fresh  to  every  one.  So  far  I  'm  not  afraid  . 
but  there,  senselessness  is  coming,  and  then  it 's 

all  up  ! '  he  waved  his  hand  feebly.     *  Well, 

what  had  I  to  say  to  you  ...  I  loved  you ! 
there  was  no  sense  in  that  even  before,  and  less 
than  ever  now.  Love  is  a  form,  and  my  own 
form  is  already  breaking  up.  Better  say  how 
lovely  you  are !  And  now  here  you  stand,  so 
beautiful  .  .  .' 

Anna  Sergyevna  gave  an  involuntary  shudder. 
'  Never  mind,  don't  be  uneasy.  .  .  .  Sit  down 

347 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

there.  .  .  .  Don't  come  close  to  me ;  you  know, 
my  illness  is  catching.' 

Anna  Sergyevna  swiftly  crossed  the  room,  and 
sat  down  in  the  armchair  near  the  sofa  on  which  * 
Bazarov  was  lying. 

*  Noble-hearted  ! '  he  whispered.  *  Oh,  how 
near,  and  how  young,  and  fresh,  and  pure  .  .  , 
in  this  loathsome  room  !  .  .  .  Well,  good-bye ! 
live  long,  that 's  the  best  of  all,  and  make  the 
most  of  it  while  there  is  time.  You  see  what  a 
hideous  spectacle ;  the  worm  half-crushed,  but 
writhing  still.  And,  you  see,  I  thought  too  :  I  'd 
break  down  so  many  things,  I  wouldn't  die,  why 
should  I !  there  were  problems  to  solve,  and  I  was 
a  giant !  And  now  all  the  problem  for  the  giant 
is  how  to  die  decently,  though  that  makes  no 
difference  to  any  one  either.  .  .  .  Never  mind  ; 
I  'm  not  going  to  turn  tail.' 

Bazarov  was  silent,  and  began  feeling  with  his 
hand  for  the  glass.  Anna  Sergyevna  gave  him 
some  drink,  not  taking  off  her  glove,  and  draw- 
ing her  breath  timorously. 

*  You  will  forget  me,'  he  began  again  ;  *  the 
dead 's  no  companion  for  the  living.  My  father 
will  tell  you  what  a  man  Russia  is  losing.  .  =  . 
That 's  nonsense,  but  don't  contradict  the  old 
man.     Whatever    toy   will    comfort    the   child 

.  you    know.      And    be    kind    to    mother. 
People  like  them  aren't  to  be  found   in   your 

348 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

great  world  if  you  look  by  daylight  with  a 
candle.  ...  I  was  needed  by  Russia.  .  .  .  No, 
it 's  clear,  I  wasn't  needed.  And  who  is  needed  ? 
'The  shoemaker's  needed,  the  tailor's  needed,  the 
butcher  .  .  .  gives  us  meat  .  .  .  the  butcher 
.  .  .  wait  a  little,  I'm  getting  mixed.  .  .  . 
There 's  a  forest  here  .  .  / 

Bazarov  put  his  hand  to  his  brow. 

Anna  Sergyevna  bent  down  to  him.  *  Yev- 
geny Vassilyitch,  I  am  here     .  .' 

He  at  once  took  his  hand  away,  and  raised 
himself. 

*  Good-bye,'  he  said  with  sudden  force,  and 
his  eyes  gleamed  with  their  last  light.  *  Good- 
bye. .  .  .  Listen  .  .  .  you  know  I  didn't  kiss 
you  then.  .  .  .  Breathe  on  the  dying  lamp,  and 
let  it  go  out        .' 

Anna  Sergyevna  put  her  lips  to  his  forehead. 

'  Enough  ! '  he  murmured,  and  dropped  back 
on  to  the  pillow.     '  Now      .  .  darkness  .  .  .' 

Anna  Sergyevna  went  softly  out.  '  Well  ? ' 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  asked  her  in  a  whisper. 

*  He  has  fallen  asleep,'  she  answered,  hardly 
audibly.  Bazarov  was  not  fated  to  awaken. 
Towards  evening  he  sank  into  complete  un- 
consciousness, and  the  following  day  he  died. 
Father  Alexey  performed  the  last  rites  of  re- 
ligion over  him.  When  they  anointed  him  with 
the  last  unction,  when  the  holy  oil  touched  his 

349 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

breast,  one  eye  opened,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
at  the  sight  of  the  priest  in  his  vestments,  the 
smoking  censers,  the  light  before  the  image, 
something  like  a  shudder  of  horror  passed  over 
the  death-stricken  face.  When  at  last  he  had 
breathed  his  last,  and  there  arose  a  universal 
lamentation  in  the  house,  Vassily  Ivanovitch  was 
seized  by  a  sudden  frenzy.  *  I  said  I  should 
rebel,'  he  shrieked  hoarsely,  with  his  face  in- 
flamed and  distorted,  shaking  his  fist  in  the  air, 
as  though  threatening  some  one ;  '  and  I  rebel, 
I  rebel ! '  But  Arina  Vlasyevna,  all  in  tears, 
hung  upon  his  neck,  and  both  fell  on  their  faces 
together.  *  Side  by  side,'  Anfisushka  related 
afterwards  in  the  servants'  room,  *  they  drooped 
their  poor  heads  like  lambs  at  noonday  .  .  .' 

But  the  heat  of  noonday  passes,  and  evening 
comes  and  night,  and  then,  too,  the  return  to  the 
kindly  refuge,  where  sleep  is  sweet  for  the  weary 
and  heavy  laden.  .  ,  , 


350 


XXVIf! 

Six  months  had  passed  by.  White  winter  had 
come  with  the  cruel  stillness  of  unclouded  frosts, 
the  thick-lying,  crunching  snow,  the  rosy  rime 
on  the  trees,  the  pale  emerald  sky,  the  wreaths 
of  smoke  above  the  chimneys,  the  clouds  of 
steam  rushing  out  of  the  doors  when  they  are 
opened  for  an  instant,  with  the  fresh  faces,  that 
look  stung  by  the  cold,  and  the  hurrying  trot  of 
the  chilled  horses.  A  January  day  was  drawing 
to  its  close  ;  the  cold  of  evening  was  more  keen 
than  ever  in  the  motionless  air,  and  a  lurid  sunset 
was  rapidly  dying  away.  There  were  lights 
burning  in  the  windows  of  the  house  at 
Maryino ;  Prokofitch  in  a  black  frockcoat  and 
white  gloves,  with  a  special  solemnity,  laid  the 
table  for  seven.  A  week  before  in  the  small 
parish  church  two  weddings  had  taken  plact 
quietly,  and  almost  without  witnesses — Arkady 
and  Katya's,  and  Nikolai  Petrovitch  and 
Fenitchka's  ;  and  on  this  day  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
was  giving  a  farewell  dinner  to  his  brother,  who 

3SI 


FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN 

was  going  away  to  Moscow  on  business.  Anna 
Sergyevna  had  gone  there  also  directly  after  the 
ceremony  was  over,  after  making  very  hand- 
some presents  to  the  young  people. 

Precisely  at  three  o'clock  they  all  gathered 
about  the  table.     Mitya  was  placed  there  too  ; 
with  him  appeared  a  nurse  in  a  cap  of  glazed 
brocade.     Pavel  Petrovitch  took   his   seat   be- 
tween Katya  and  Fenitchka  ;  the  '  husbands ' 
took    their    places    beside    their    wives.     Our 
friends  had  changed  of  late  ;  they  all  seemed  to 
have  grown  stronger  and  better  looking ;  only 
Pavel  Petrovitch  was  thinner,  which  gave  even 
more  of  an  elegant  and  *  grand  seigneur '  air  to 
his  expressive  features.  .  .  .  And  Fenitchka  too 
was  different.     In   a   fresh   silk  gown,  with  a 
wide  velvet  head-dress  on  her  hair,  with  a  gold 
chain  round  her  neck,  she  sat  with  deprecating 
immobility,  respectful  towards  herself  and  every- 
thing surrounding  her,  and  smiled  as  though  she 
would  say,'  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  'm  not  to  blame.' 
And  not  she  alone — all  the  others  smiled,  and 
also  seemed  apologetic ;   they  were  all  a  little 
awkward,  a   little   sorry,   and   in   reality   very 
happy.      They   all    helped   one   another    with 
humorous  attentiveness,  as  though  they  had  all 
agreed  to  rehearse  a  sort  of  artless  farce.    Katya 
was  the   most    composed    of   all ;   she  looked 
confidently  about  her,  and  it  could  be  seen  that 

352 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  already  devotedly  fond 
of  her.  At  the  end  of  dinner  he  got  up,  and, 
his  glass  in  his  hand,  turned  to  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

*  You  are  leaving  us  .  .  .  you  are  leaving  us, 
dear  brother,'  he  began  ;  *  not  for  long,  to  be 
sure ;  but  still,  I  cannot  help  expressing  what  I 
.  .  .  what  we  .  .  .  how  much  I  .  .  .  how  much 
we.  .  .  .  There,  the  worst  of  it  is,  we  don't  know 
how  to  make  speeches.  Arkady,  you  speak.' 

*  No,  daddy,  I  've  not  prepared  anything.' 

'  As  though  I  were  so  well  prepared  !  Well, 
brother,  I  will  simply  say,  let  us  embrace  you, 
wish  you  all  good  luck,  and  come  back  to  us  as 
quick  as  you  can  ! ' 

Pavel  Petrovitch  exchanged  kisses  with 
every  one,  of  course  not  excluding  Mitya ;  in 
Fenitchka's  case,  he  kissed  also  her  hand,  which 
she  had  not  yet  learned  to  offer  properly,  and 
drinking  off  the  glass  which  had  been  filled 
again,  he  said  with  a  deep  sigh,  *  May  you  be 
happy,  my  friends  !  Farewell ! '  This  English 
finale  passed  unnoticed  ;  but  all  were  touched. 

*To  the  memory  of  Bazarov,'  Katya 
whispered  in  her  husband's  ear,  as  she  clinked 
glasses  with  him.  Arkady  pressed  her  hand 
warmly  in  response,  but  he  did  not  venture  to 
propose  this  toast  aloud. 

The  end,  would  it  seem  ?  But  perhaps  some 
one  of  our  readers  would  care  to  know  what 

353  2 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

each  of  the  characters  we  have  introduced  is 
doing  in  the  present,  the  actual  present  We 
are  ready  to  satisfy  him. 

Anna  Sergyevna  has  recently  made  a  mar- 
riage, not  of  lovie  but  of  good  sense,  with  one  of 
the  future  leaders  of  Russia,  a  very  clever  man, 
a  lawyer,  possessed  of  vigorous  practical  sense,  a 
strong  will,  and  remarkable  fluency — still  young, 
good-natured,  and  cold  as  ice.  They  live  in  the 
greatest  harmony  together,  and  will  live  per- 
haps to  attain  complete  happiness  .  .  .  perhaps 

love.     The  Princess    K is   dead,  forgotten 

the  day  of  her  death.  The  Kirsanovs,  father 
and  son,  live  at  Maryino  ;  their  fortunes  are 
beginning  to  mend.  Arkady  has  become  zealous 
in  the  management  of  the  estate,  and  the 
*  farm '  now  yields  a  fairly  good  income.  Nik- 
olai Petrovitch  has  been  made  one  of  the 
mediators  appointed  to  carry  out  the  emancipa- 
tion reforms,  and  works  with  all  his  energies  ;  he 
is  for  ever  driving  about  over  his  district;  delivers 
long  speeches  (he  maintains  the  opinion  that 
the  peasants  ought  to  be  *  brought  to  compre- 
hend things,'  that  is  to  say,  they  ought  to  be 
reduced  to  a  state  of  quiescence  by  the  constant 
repetition  of  the  same  words)  ;  and  yet,  to  tell 
the  truth,  he  does  not  give  complete  satisfaction 
either  to  the  refined  gentry,  who  talk  with  chic^ 
or  depression  of  the  emancipation  (pronouncing 

354 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

it  as  though  it  were  French),  nor  of  the  unculti- 
vated gentry,  who  unceremoniously  curse  '  the 
damned  *  mancipation^  He  is  too  soft-hearted 
for  both  sets.  Katerina  Sergyevna  has  a  son, 
little  Nikolai,  while  Mitya  runs  about  merrily 
and  talks  fluently.  Fenitchka,  Fedosya  Nik- 
olaevna,  after  her  husband  and  Mitya,  adores  no 
one  so  much  as  her  daughter-in-law,  and  when 
the  latter  is  at  the  piano,  she  would  gladly  spend 
the  whole  day  at  her  side.  A  passing  word  of 
Piotr.  He  has  grown  perfectly  rigid  with  stu- 
pidity and  dignity,  but  he  too  is  married,  and  re-  ( 
ceived  a  respectable  dowry  with  his  bride,  the  ( 
daughter  of  a  market-gardener  of  the  town,  who  \ 
had  refused  two  excellent  suitors,  only  because 
they  had  no  watch ;  while  Piotr  had  not  only  a 
watch — he  had  a  pair  of  kid  shoes. 

In  the  Briihl  Terrace  in  Dresden,  between 
two  and  four  o'clock — the  most  fashionable 
time  for  walking — you  may  meet  a  man  about 
fifty,  quite  grey,  and  looking  as  though  he 
suffered  from  gout,  but  still  handsome,  elegantly 
dressed,  and  with  that  special  stamp,  which  is 
only  gained  by  moving  a  long  time  in  the  higher 
strata  of  society.  That  is  Pavel  Petrovitch. 
From  Moscow  he  went  abroad  for  the  sake  of 
his  health,  and  has  settled  for  good  at  Dresden, 
where  he  associates  most  with  English  and 
Russian    visitors.      With    English    people    he 

355 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

behaves  simply,  almost  modestly,  but  with 
dignity;  they  find  him  rather  a  bore,  but  respect 
him  for  being,  as  they  say,  *  a  perfect  gentleman.^ 
With  Russians  he  is  more  free  and  easy,  gives 
vent  to  his  spleen,  and  makes  fun  of  him- 
self and  them,  but  that  is  done  by  him 
with  great  amiability,  negligence,  and  pro- 
priety. He  holds  Slavophil  views ;  it  is  well 
known  that  in  the  highest  society  this  is  re- 
garded as  tres  distingue  \  He  reads  nothing  in 
Russian,  but  on  his  writing  table  there  is  a 
silver  ashpan  in  the  shape  of  a  peasant's  plaited 
shoe.  He  is  much  run  after  by  our  tourists. 
Matvy  Ilyitch  Kolyazin,  happening  to  be  in 
temporary  opposition,  paid  him  a  majestic  visit ; 
while  the  natives,  with  whom,  however,  he  is  very 
little  seen,  positively  grovel  before  him.  No  one 
can  so  readily  and  quickly  obtain  a  ticket  for  the 
court  chapel,  for  the  theatre,  and  such  things  as 
der  Herr  Baron  von  Kirsanoff,  He  does  every- 
thing good-naturedly  that  he  can ;  he  still 
makes  some  little  noise  in  the  world ;  it  is  not 
for  nothing  that  he  was  once  a  great  society 
lion  ; — but  life  is  a  burden  to  him  ...  a  heavier 
burden  than  he  suspects  himself.  One  need  but 
glance  at  him  in  the  Russian  church,  when,  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  on  one  side,  he  sinks  into 
thought,  and  remains  long  without  stirring, 
bitterly  compressing  his  lips,  then  suddenly  re- 

356 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

collects  himself,  and  begins  almost  imperceptibly 
crossing  himself.  .  .  . 

Madame  Kukshin,  too,  went  abroad.  She  is 
in  Heidelberg,  and  is  now  studying  not  natural 
science,  but  architecture,  in  which,  according 
to  her  own  account,  she  has  discovered  new 
laws.  She  still  fraternises  with  students, 
especially  with  the  young  Russians  studying 
natural  science  and  chemistry,  with  whom 
Heidelberg  is  crowded,  and  who,  astounding 
the  naYve  German  professors  at  first  by  the 
soundness  of  their  views  of  things,  astound  the 
same  professors  no  less  in  the  sequel  by  their 
complete  inefficiency  and  absolute  idleness. 
In  company  with  two  or  three  such  young 
chemists,  who  don't  know  oxygen  from  nitrogen, 
but  are  filled  with  scepticism  and  self-conceit, 
and,  too,  with  the  great  Elisyevitch,  Sitnikov 
roams  about  Petersburg,  also  getting  ready  to 
be  great,  and  in  his  own  conviction  continues 
the  '  work  '  of  Bazarov.  There  is  a  story  that 
some  one  recently  gave  him  a  beating ;  but  he 
was  avenged  upon  him  ;  in  an  obscure  little 
article,  hidden  in  an  obscure  little  journal,  he 
has  hinted  that  the  man  who  beat  him  was  a 
coward.  He  calls  this  irony.  His  father  bullies 
him  as  before,  while  his  wife  regards  him  as  a 
fool  .  .  .  and  a  literary  man. 
^^    There  is  a  small  village  graveyard  in  one  of 

357 


FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN 

♦^he  remote  corners  of  Russia.  Like  almost  all 
our  graveyards,  it  presents  a  wretched  appear- 
ance ;  the  ditches  surrounding  it  have  long  been 
overgrown  ;  the  grey  wooden  crosses  lie  fallen 
and  rotting  under  their  once  painted  gables; 
the  stone  slabs  are  all  displaced,  as  though 
some  one  were  pushing  them  up  from  behind  ; 
two  or  three  bare  trees  give  a  scanty  shade  ;  the 
sheep  wander  unchecked  among  the  tombs.  .  . 
But  among  them  is  one  untouched  by  man,  un- 
trampled  by  beast,  only  the  birds  perch  upon  it 
and  sing  at  daybreak.  An  iron  railing  runs 
round  it  ;  two  young  fir-trees  have  been  planted, 
one  at  each  end.  Yevgeny  Bazarov  is  buried  in 
this  tomb.  Often  from  the  little  village  not  far 
off,  two  quite  feeble  old  people  come  to  visit  it — a 
husband  and  wife.  Supporting  one  another, 
they  move  to  it  with  heavy  steps  ;  they  go  up  to 
the  railing,  fall  down,  and  remain  on  their  knees, 
and  long  and  bitterly  they  weep,  and  yearn  and 
intently  they  gaze  at  the  dumb  stone,  under 
which  their  son  is  lying  ;  they  exchange  some 
brief  word,  wipe  away  the  dust  from  the  stone, 
set  straight  a  branch  of  a  fir-tree,  and  pray  again, 
and  cannot  tear  themselves  from  this  place, 
where  they  seem  to  be  nearer  to  their  son,  to 
their  memories  of  him.  .  .  Can  it  be  that  their 
prayers,  their  tears  are  fruitless  ?  Can  it  be  that 
love,  sacred,  devoted  love,  is  not  all-powerful  ? 

3S8 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

Oh,  no  !  However  passionate,  sinning,  and  rebel- 
lious the  heart  hidden  in  the  tomb,  the  flowers 
growing  over  it  peep  serenely  at  us  with  their 
innocent  eyes  ;  they  tell  us  not  of  eternal  peace 
alone,  of  that  great  peace  of  *  indifferent '  nature  ; 
they  tell  us  too  of  eternal  reconciliation  and  of 
life  without  end 


THE  END 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty, 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


H  DAY  USF 

-OKNTOOBSK^KOMWHrCHBOKKOWBO 
^OAN  DEPT. 

T^is  book  is  due  on  the  lasf  H.. 

— "ojea  to  immediate  recall. 


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